like a sunburn, only not

sometimes the heat swells
so much, my legs stick
hard to hard plastic
chairs, then unstick
themselves with loud
smacks of sound, echoing
thicks and thucks, all too
painful like ripping off
store brand bandages
from raw, red wounds,
like the grimace after
boyfriend number six-
teen breaks your last
old twenty-dollar bill
at the corner gas station
to buy himself some beer.
(you thought i'd say
heart, didn't you?)

sometimes it's summer
and i wish i could peel
off my skin, hang it up
while i lounge around
in my pink muscle dress,
let the humidity pierce
through me like a pin.

but it's not as easy
as unzipping flesh
and unrolling legs
from plastic office
furniture, so i'll let
myself turn magenta
in the thick air and hope
my limbs don't fall apart
when i stand up again.