i decide that i like the feeling of the wind against my
damp skin, the way it dances across my hair,
my face a monochrome mess as summer
seeps out of my body.

the constellations clinging to my thighs fade,
the memory of touch distant as i start
screaming, words and blood and skittles
pouring out of my open mouth as i try to speak.

deja vu is not a good enough word,
not a worthy enough mess of letters put
together to make anyone understand the
pain i relive in my own mind every time i
remember that the leaves will turn brown,
and i will turn bitter.

warmth will turn into distance, and i will
start screaming into my rug, blue light washing
over me as i wake up, hair unwashed, bed untouched,
covered in dust.

when the snow falls, i will crawl
into the mirror and hold my hands to my ears,
because it is easier to sit and pull at my rotting skin
than to listen to someone tell me that everything
is fine.

sometimes i like to think that it will be different.
i dream and i pray, i pray for the first time in years that
the leaves are turning  orange,
and that i am fine.