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Storms in Late Summer MAG
I hung my anger out to dry with the rest of the delicates,
handwoven sweaters and silky blouses that couldn't bear the heat of the dryer.
The wind smelled sticky,
like ice cream spilled and melting into the pavement.
The handwoven sweaters and silky blouses couldn't stand the heat,
you told me they would be ruined,
like ice cream spilled and melting into the pavement,
dropped by a girl with storms under her skin.
You told me it was ruined,
there are some things that can't be put back.
There is a girl with storms under her skin
and all evacuation routes are closed.
There are some things that can't be put back,
no matter how hard you push the lever, twist the knife.
All evacuation routes are closed.
The laundry begins to wilt in the air.
No matter how hard you twist the knife,
the hurricane is coming, a sundae piled high with whipped cream and bullet casings.
The laundry is wilting in the air.
My anger is hanging out to dry with the rest of the delicates,
singing love songs into the eye of the storm,
sticky sweet melodies painted candy apple red that come down as the rain does,
and I stand in the downpour until I forget how it feels to be dry.