Fighting with all my breath to breathe. To inhale deep and feel free. To inhale and not feel a pain there in my ribs. Not feel the knife that twists at night as I twist in my sheets. My ruined bloody sheets. Rubbing broken glass into my skin. Rolling in my ruin. Rolling in my wreckage. A burnt fuselage with weeds growing through it on a mountainside. The heat, I can't sleep in the heat, summer sees long shadows grow under my eyes. Summer sees me dripping in my sheets staring at the ceiling. Summer sees me grimace in the night. I twist and wrap myself tight. Pull the sheets against the morning light. Still awake. Still unsated. Still unsaid. Never still, always moving, branches in the wind, no wind down here, no wind in this room, only the heat dripping down the walls. Only the embers glowing in the hot night and sweat pours off my back as I stare up at the black the clock on the wall says four and I'm no more just a gibbering hulk on the floor the bed's too hot, too small, too big and empty and full of sweat and twisted sheets and broken glass and I'm an ass and I'm a villain and pack the wound with liquor to keep from healing, wrong, or right or scabbing over at all.