Turning on the acThe heaviness of the hot air
sits on my lap,
Drops of sweat dot my face and neck
My clothes turn transparent,
My heart works harder.
My head begs me to do something, anything.
I reach for the answer.
My sticky fingers leave evidence of the act,
The room burns like an open oven,
but I force myself to fight it and wait.
The coolness rushes in
and I'm overcome with joy and silliness.
I could stay like this forever.