Summer the word inspiring more than just the trite images of pools and lemonade, of sweat and metal slides. The scars from the same slides, the burns from the seatbelt, the duct tape like leather seats, and annoyingly long road trips with people she will later pretend not to know. Summer is excruciating for one who rarely shows her arms or legs. She may no longer cut but the comments from well meaning family members help little.

She can hear it even now "what's that dark patch of skin from?" Or her personal favorite "Where did you get so many bruises/scars/cuts/burns/etc?" With every comment the tightening in her chest grows and her nails dig a little harder into her hand and her teeth sink a little deeper in her lips. She needs to cut, thinking of the ice cold metal dancing across her flushed skin makes the heat seems even more unbearable.

"How far away is Blowing Rock again?" She groans to hear two more hours. Two more hours in this personal hell with people who like the heat and feel now would be a great time to talk about little Jenni's depression. 'Yea great, just fucking great.' She thinks running her free hand over the cool edge of her keys wishing it were just a little sharper.