I take my nails off at the salon. Then I go home and paint them red. They are impossibly thin and fold under the slightest pressure—like me. 

     The only feelings in early August are the weight of nothing and my sore fingertips. The mornings are too hot and by noon the sunlight is white, not yellow, and the days are left muggy. August feels like dread and fluorescent lights in a dying department store. 

     I don’t shower after I sweat in August. It’s not worth it. I put on a mismatched bikini and rub tanning oil that smells like rancid bananas all over my body. It makes the tile slippery. I walk through the house and grab a book that I won’t read and sunglasses with a scratched lens. When I’m outside on the patio, I let the bricks burn the soles of my feet and lay down on a faded beach towel. Then sweat out all the people I hate and any willpower that hides in obscure nooks of my body. 

     When I feel like I’m on the brink of unconsciousness, I stand up dizzily and grab the nearest object to keep from collapsing into myself. My vision is turquoise and blurred and the sweat burns my eyes. I don’t fold the towel, instead, I toss it onto the dusty tabletop and walk across the driveway, avoiding the dead bees, I get the hose. I let the water run until it won’t scald my already burnt skin and wash off the sweat.

     I go inside and put my clothes back on. Pajamas or some shirt I only wear at home. And then I go on my phone and lay in my bed while a migraine floods into my head and my heart beats too fast. I pick at my flimsy nails until they bleed.