the slow burn of august. the comfort of sleeves that are too long. the itch of winter, spreading too quickly. the clothes on my bedroom floor. the dishes in my sink. the look in my eyes i wonder if any one else can see.
it’s like a dream where
all your screams come out as whispers,
and nobody is standing close enough to hear.

or maybe
a nightmare where they hear you perfectly,
but pretend that they can’t.

i wonder
which is worse.