Maybe it’s the heat,
the dog days smuggling water in through your pores and into
your lungs, drowning you
inside your skin
forcing out your breath in labored
syllables
It could be the dark, creeping in
an inch at a time until one day,
driving home
you take your eyes off of the road and expect to see the sun
draped low on the horizon
but there’s only grey, tinged with the last remains
of orange at the edges, dulled
and faded
sung to sleep by the din
of the cicadas
It might be the moon;
blame it on whatever phase it’s in
waxing/waning
or the stars and their alignment
today or the day you were born, it doesn’t matter
planets spinning retrograde,
the chemicals inside your brain
The constant noise
is driving you
insane.