I am always summer camp for people–

A secondary world,

An escape wrapped in an expiration date.

How lucky I am to have a thousand pretty pictures as the only evidence of my existence.


Then fall brushes by, and I leave no trace.

They return to homes and lives,

Worlds without room for one more.


I know my life in solstices,

Where I belong by the season.

Nobody wants summer camp in winter.

They have families for that.


And me? I am an unasked question.

It doesn’t occur to the campers that I don’t want to be some seasonal aside anymore.

It’s exhausting to evaporate every autumn,

Shifting my matter to accommodate all the permanence I’m not.

Disappearing is an art I’m trying to unlearn.

Summer camp is self I’m trying to close.

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