In autumn,
all the leaves fall
creating a pastel monsoon
vibrant reds and illustrious oranges
that would make
the busiest of people
take a moment of their time
to glance up
and admire
the last pure thing
to coexist with the modern human race.
In winter,
the trees become bare,
vulnerable,
as am I.
What I used to enjoy
so much
now pains me to even look at on a calendar.
I was bare
I was vulnerable
and you striked.
Pulling back the string,
you brought the arrowhead to your lips
giving it a small kiss
for me,
and let go.
It struck me right in the heart,
but you were hunting
for all the wrong reasons
you were hunting
for the ****.
The pain quickly spread through every nerve ending ever to exist
as my head pounded
kind of like the alarm
you give an ungrateful smack to
every morning.
There was no snooze button,
no matter how hard I hit,
cut,
and clawed at
the plastic surrounding
my alarm clock
the pain did not stop.
And here we are,
a year later.
Still buzzing,
still attempting,
still hurting.
In Spring,
the leaves grow back.
They grow back new skin
and new bodies,
any lacerations
nowhere to be found.
Yet, their colors
are more dull
because in nature
the more innocent you are
the less you shine.