It’s been a cold summer so far this year. Wrapped up in blankets of bad memories I bring up to make the empty feeling seem worthwhile. I question whether or not I am. The answer is clear in the form of these halfsleep nightmares, like I want to believe. I put black coffee to a bitter tongue to treat my bitter mind, to treat my bitter heart. What have I become? I want to know the touch of your hands like the backs of my own. These problems aren’t my own. Recurring reassurance is one in a million. Falling short beside the garbage heap of insecurities. Seasonal depression weighs through cycles of winter blues and summer grays, so wake me with the falling leaves. This summer doesn’t deserve me.
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