The Fourth of July, 2020 Stephanie Sutherland The night brings soft whimpering to my pillow. The night carries violent wet cheeks and a sore throat. The night buries the searching sobs. The morning brings soft white light to sting my eyes. The morning carries banging doors and toothbrush gagging. The morning buries the searching sobs. The morning belittles discontent as the sun rises to dry my tears It's late afternoon and I'm restless. The day has been filled with endless debate and mockery, a mockery of debate. Who are you to think you're right? I run. I have to run. In the clothes I pretend to sleep in I take off out the door in borrowed (stolen) sneakers. I tear through the slick gravel and damp grass pleading with my lungs to keep up with my feet. This lasts for about fifteen seconds. What the hell am I doing? Back and forth I walk on a forgotten dirt path. Looking up at the mountains I am dwarfed by a creation I'll never understand. What the fuck am I doing? My feet fly again, they find their way to water. Running, walking, running, walking. My lungs won't fucking keep up. Lift the handle on the red pump, city water flows. I cup my hands beneath the red flow and bring it up to my mouth. The liquid soothes my sore throat. The taste sours my tongue. What the fuck am I doing? My legs keep moving faster and slower, faster and slower. My lungs are angry with me but my mind won't shut the fuck up. I hate to keep going. What choice do I have? I search the campus for sweet kisses and warm hugs. I caress glass. I dance beneath abandoned tools. I trace my fingertips along a rusting pick-up truck. I hate myself. I walk away. My ass finds wet concrete. My fingers undo the laces of borrowed-without-asking running shoes and place my socks mournfully inside. My feet fall headfirst into the creek and try to walk on the surface of the water. They can't. Spiderwebs pull me back from the edge, those sticky strings fear for my life when no one else will. I am alone in Colorado surrounded by homes. Where is everyone? The blue rain scares them all inside. It carries covid and racism and activism and ironic holidays celebrated by sounds like gunshots. The rain might stain your willful ignorance if it breathes on your body. I give up. I walk back to my musty solitude with bare soles and a hand filled with shoes. My skin is vulnerable to the hole in the world. My pores fill with purple melancholy. My soul blisters as gravel pierces my fleshy feet. I ache with every step. Every step aches and pains. Struggle unites us all.