The AC breaks. I am dead weight. Destabilizing.
Take my blood pressure. 79/65. It’s not shocking.

I press my face into cool leather couch cushions.
My skin smells like the lotion that will not sink in.

Cry on the hardwood kitchen floor, the water
boils on the stove above me, waiting, waiting.

I don’t need to move. I don’t need to think. Breathe
the airlessness. Suck out stale drags of oxygen.

It looks like I’ve waded in shit, but it’s just mud
from the poppy field last week I swear. It’ll wash.

Blood draw tomorrow. We’ll see if I pull off the trick.
Pre-game electrolytes, healthy fats, prayers, threats.

Chain chew a pack of Orbit sweet mint. Stress
like there’s a gun to my head. I’d almost rather.

81 degrees Fahrenheit in the pitch dark living room.
I too am familiar with this number. I am happier cold.