Summer is hot and eye-straining and mucous-y,

Only thing that makes it bearable

is the blushing peaches

and fertilized orange trees

and the sweet vanilla cake dresses that get hung on my shoulders

and the way my hair curls like they’re real.

Summer is boundlessly idealized

by the shimmering, inebriated, and itchy image of it,

Of sun hitting the surface of the dark, swollen sea

and slick, sun-screened skin,

strolling through archaic, cathedral-infested streets

with nectarines and hibiscus tea in your stomach.

Summer is the worst season of all seasons

for fault of the crippling sorrow

I receive merely by rising with the dawn and knowing it’s summer.

Yet, it’s swimming in my mind

like sirens with koi fish tails out in brackish water,

enticing me, and winning.