Moving

Drenched in sweat, or tears. Its hard to tell the difference. Both sting my eyes, leave me feeling humiliated. Tangles of hair that break another brush. Paint stained t-shirt, jeans rolled up to avoid the heat. Skin gleaming white. This is far from what summer should be. Surrounded by cardboard boxes. We’ll turn ourselves into robots when the moving is done. When the moving is done. When will it be? I don’t want that day to come. No control. Its happening so fast. Unable to grind my heels into the dirt, or drag my fingernails across the walls. I have to go, and nothing will ever be the same.