I am lying in the backseat of your car,

the taste of mold stuck to the roof of my mouth.

You drop your cigarette out the window

and say something about miracles.

You think I’m asleep.

A year later, you still think I’m asleep.

I dream of your hands in places they shouldn’t be—

like in my own.

When I was younger, I learned

not to cry over what I couldn’t fix,

to just fix what I could.

But I can’t help crying,

my shaking hands trying to glue

the sun back together.

Light leaks through the cracks,

and burns everywhere.

I hate my name.

I hate your voice,

the shape of your words.

You can keep summer.

It never belonged to me

and won’t feel right belonging

to anyone else.