By Nia Mahmud
it is july and i am sick again. sun is an exploded ballpoint pen bleeding across my skin.
heat hovering above my hair; flies on a corpse. i am pale, lightheaded, room spins
and i sway like the good dance partner i am. fast food burger pressed into my hand
like a face-up penny. the only luck i have is when i sneak a look across the dance floor
and find he’s already looking at me. shimmy around the truth; coffee table corners and
small talk. say how was your day instead of why can’t you want this in the same way
i do? there’s something about summer that makes everything feel possible.
but salt air doesn’t cure all. i’m on the dance floor and this time he turns away.
he doesn’t use a coaster and when he says it’s over. i wonder what all the damn dancing
was for. showing up feverish at the sight of him. doing everything to be uncomplicated
like a two am fast food run. when he says it’s over. i keep spinning.
i choke on metal of eroded refrigerators. summer and salt air have only ever
made me crawl into my bunched up shoulders. one day i’ll forgive it all:
the burning up, the rosy pink cheeks. the marveling at infatuation like it can hold me.
i’m alone on the dance floor and this time i call it a cure. a reinvention.
Nia Mahmud (she/her) is the author of the poetry collection ‘a complete work in progress’ and has been published by Unfiltered Magazine, Unpublished Magazine, The Same Faces Collective, and Potted Purple Magazine. Find her on Instagram at @nia.m.writer
Hot Pot Magazine 