Sweat

I feel like I'm crawling through thick,
steaming soup.
And not the delicious kind that you get to eat.
It's the kind that feels a lot like it's eating you.
Covering you in slick salt,
whether you're moving or not.

Even breathing seems to coat your skin in more of this substance,
like it's somehow trying to help,
instead of making you feel like you need a nice hot shower
and a steel wire brush to get it off of your skin.

When there are heat sources all around you,
filling the very air you breath,
and stealing each hint of sweet, sweet moisture from your lips,
there's very little you can do.
Except stay away from the grill,
guzzle all the water you can,
and eventually escape the metal box on wheels
where you have been talking to assholes all day.
Because nothing tops off a hot day better
​than customer service.