August always brings those black eyes,
those little hearts,
and I can't stop her.
She makes paper dolls but leaves them naked.
They have no faces.
When I was small, I dreaded autumn.
The bullies, dressed
in doubt and sweat, spoke
sweetly before
using their licorice fingers
to strangle me.
And August would say nothing,
just stand there timidly.
At home I would
iron-out the curls,
the temptations.
I would resolve
to do better.
But the windows are rolled-up
in this hot car, and I rest
my head on the steering wheel.
Meanwhile, August weaves her fingers
in and out of reality,
wisps of thought
in moist heartbreak,
and I am falling asleep
in the nest she creates.
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