I used to write about October,
about watching the leaves change colours
and falling in love
with the way the world would
slowly
and surely fall apart
in the most beautiful way.
I used to write about December,
about feeling the long nights
settle the sadness that always
comes creeping in,
the sadness that keeps me safe
through the storm,
the comfort
I found in darkness,
in the cold,
until it consumed me
so consumed,
that I could not think
to write about May
at all, because I was so lost,
so high on the adrenaline
that comes from being
the perfect storm.
I ran away,
destructive in my attempts
to avoid change,
I ripped out the roots
of the flowers that tried to bloom
and buried them in empty pages.
Now, I write about August,
about how the sun starts to look tired
by the time afternoon comes around
but refuses to go to sleep
until it absolutely has to,
and is still to rise early,
eager for a breath of the morning,
the light I managed to keep around
and hold onto
so that when October,
and December
return once again
to take my soul
as their own
I will be strong enough
to make it to May,
I will not run away
from the words that
try to grow
I will lay amongst the flowers,
and I will be even better
than before.
