I was only meant to be here for a season.

Some call me Summer.
The way I light up a room.
Bright and warm and full of laughter.

He called me Autumn.
Because he fell for me.
Cozy nights by the fire.
Color and brisk walks and smiles.

She told me I remind her of the Spring.
New beginnings and hopeful futures.
Spashing in puddles and planting flowers.

But you know that I'm
Winter.
Cold.
A brisk walk to a cold car.
A shiver down your spine.
Ice and shut windows closed doors and frostbite.
You catch a glimpse of my snowflakes and claim beauty before my snow storm blizzard white-out black ice on zero viability roads in your cold cold car takes their place.
I'm cold.
Unforgiving.
Ice.
Cold.

it's okay to feel.
baby i know
the world is telling you you're weak if you
feel,
that the tears in your eyes symbolize your lack of strength,
but you've been strong for too long,
i know that, i do;
so honey
let  
     it
         go.
let those tears pour down your face
with the strength of a million wails,
scream! cry! let the sobs
tear through your body
until the moans can barely escape your lips.
let your face contort
into a picture of agony,
feel each
individual string in your heart
pull
pull
snap.
fall on your knees, pound the floor
jesus let yourself be "weak."
and then pick yourself back up,
fix your smudged lipstick, and
learn to forgive the world
and yourself.
learn to live again.

i hope everything is okay
i still worry about you
i engraved you in my heart
you're still one of my first thoughts in the morning
i want to be normal friends
i miss the conversation
how's your girlfriend
i hope you're happy with her
how's the family
i hope they're well too
i hate how awkward we are now
anyways
i hope you're doing well
i am i promise

s.s

with a heavy heart,
i write.
i write to save my life,
to make myself feel something
when the rain pounding my window
gets too monotonous.
i write to confirm my faith
in words,
that even when everyone else fails me,
they will be waiting
(to be bled)
on my notebook's pages.
they don't judge me.
i write when
i am in love,
when i need an outlet to expel color,
when i need a list of metaphors
(to compare to his eyes).
my pen is the only one who knows
why i press so hard
(when i write your name).
i write because i'm broken,
because even the closest to me
don't know
what the hell is going on beneath the surface.
i'm sorry for isolating myself but
you couldn't help me anyways.
i write to remind myself
of the beating of my own heart,
the tears in my eyes, half-moons
in my palms.
(i write to remind myself
that i am alive.)

he said
you are so gorgeous in the way
you write yourself on paper,
i've never met anyone
to paint with words.
he said
the birds sing your praises
in the early morning sun,
the dew still heavy on blades of grass.
he said
i have never seen such beauty
grace my irises of green,
never known the word perfect
until i told him my name.
he said
you
        are
                my
                        universe.