My lover’s hair is caught up in the wind’s path
And begins to interweave.
The breeze is caught up in each strand
And begs desperately not to leave.

Mother, O mother,
You'll spit on my bones,
When I die, know I've tried, but my mind and heart froze.

You'll shout from your high horse,
and your empty shell,
That you'd **** me from heaven
If you could, to hell.

It’s deafening,
Sometimes,
Living with your own ghost.

She haunts my corridors
Like a malformed memory that will echo
With each breath.
She wants to watch me
Dig
Indefinitely to the
End.

Nothing would please her more than to watch me dig myself further into this hole of a life.

When I ask people to repeat themselves, it’s not because I couldn’t hear them.
Rather, because I hear her yelling at me to get out.
Watching me
Run
Out of
Time.

Sometimes I wonder if I scare other people as much as she scares me.
Other times, I wonder if she is the one doing that for me.

I’m not insecure.
I know who I am and I hate that person.
And I know who I was,
And I curse my unwelcome passenger for the end product.

I am my own adversary.

I think I want to get better, but I'm really not sure.
We’ll see tomorrow, if she permits.

She is so orange!
Her skin is pale,
And her hair is an off-white blonde,
But she...
Oh man, is she orange.
I smell the falling leaves through her smile,
And I can feel the carving tools sawing through pumpkin rinds,
Drawing Autumn sketches,
Doing what artists will do at this point in the year,
As If they were my own hands.

She will shout from the rooftops
With her yellow words
About her seasonal excitement,
Ending each proclamation with red exclamation marks.

She will shower me in plans
For Octobers and Novembers to come.
Walking me through festivals and unmade memories
With each new idea.

She is orange,
And for the next few months
Orange is my favorite colour.