on Fall;

Bitterness breeds verse, elation trains rhyming words, and numbness holds me pinned against the damp bathroom tile force feeding me stimulants, then depressants, repeatedly until the sum of me is nothing. Winter is born in my lungs and I pretend I’m willing, turn my back on the warmth like all I’ve ever needed was a choice, and the sun in me is nothing.

The Difference is Just Noticeable and she perceives the change in me, like I got lost one day chasing leaves and turned up a season later with dirt in my eyes like I dug a hole and died until finally it again was beautiful outside. With frost on the inside of my bedroom window I can don scarves and thicker armor and remember that sometimes it’s okay, but in the slow transition from sun-soaked bliss to white blankets and icy wind, I fall short.

Something about the subtle leaving of better weather feels like being drained of blood and slowly left to dry. I’m left apathetic, hibernating, grey, just trying to get by.

Ashley Wylde
September 30th, 2014

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