Scratchy secondhand sweaters,
spicy apple cider, rosy noses, and cherry pie cheeks,
crunchy grass, orange sunsets with firey trees,
teddy bear suckers, rootbeer floats,
blood and guts on cobblestone graves,
Carving big pumpkins, cold tile floors,
flannels that smell like bonfires and breeze,
snails at fall fest, tiny pencil skirts,
the warmth of you lying in cold crunchy leaves

His words tangle tightly in my brain
and ring fire in my soul,
just like an old-timey ballad  
spinning in the background, dusty on my stereo

That jet black hair keeps me weak in my knees,
voice as strong as our morning coffee,
Whispering my name
with sweet lines that remind me, I'm here for a reason.

And that reason will always be my home sweet home

They sometimes call me the gray girl.

For most, it's the dye I  pollute my ***** dish water hair with but
for few, it's the cold ice water that's replaced the liquid pumping through me.

Sometimes I wear men's golf sweaters in the summer.

The droplets that slide down my back remind me
that even abominable snowmen melt and while
it's mostly sweat, it's partially my inner workings thawing becoming nothing but a pool beneath my wiggling toes.

Deep puddles, never-ending trenches to trudge through,
Shallow puddles, the same ones I used to play in when I was a kid. Splashing and leaping until my lower limbs stay covered in rain water mud and my bangs smell like the outside air.
I didn't seem to melt as easily then.

They sometimes call me the girl frozen in time

Maybe for the '96 edition baseball keds I wear in the fall, mimicking the past, keeping it's stillness locked away in a time capsule along with the same ice princess costume I wore three Halloweens in a row.

Or maybe for the worn out flannel from Pools that always seems to be the first thing I throw on my shivering body when old man winter blows his first frosty kiss
always finding it's way to my cheek.

They sometimes call me rosie

Not the riveter, but always for the hue of reddish pink that accents my nose when spring showers and April flowers grace my passageways and fill my visuals.

It's more than the allergens, it's the intoxication of new life with fresh beginnings that make everything seem smoother than the honey tea dripping down the corner of my mouth.

They sometimes call me all of these things, but I've always been known as the season of dwindle.

Stay in bed until your body hurts from staying in bed,
Gain 5 pounds,
Go through a nasty breakup,
Distance yourself from every bit of humanity,
Feel bad that you're distancing yourself from every bit of humanity

Get spontaneous bangs,
Think about the universe and human socialization,
Decide maybe it's just not for you.
Decide that's silly.

Get another piercing,
Decide you hate your bangs,
Decide you like your bangs.
Tell people to call you the little drummer boy,
Pa *** pum pum pum.
Remember that people support you regardless of anything previously mentioned.

Decide you're still a good person.
Mostly.

Have an ongoing Harry Potter marathon as a coping mechanism.
Because Harry wouldn't do this to you, okay
Be reminded of your childhood,
Miss being a kid.

Immerse yourself deeper into more cult classics.
Is Donnie Darko god?

Wonder how people describe you to others.
Get really insecure about how people describe you to others.
Realize you're normal,
Realize everyone thinks about this.

Like about existing
And the butterfly effect
And how it's important that you're here.

Realize you're glad you're here too.

*****
I want to forget my existence

I want to lie in bed until I can no longer feel my feet.
The tingly sensation climbing my toes
and making my bones resemble static electricity.

Some days I think it's the only feeling I'm capable of feeling but sometimes it feels more real than
any heartfelt goodbye could.

I'm disintegrating from the inside out
My lungs consumed with shards
as my eyes fill with salty water that stings my cheeks, rolls down my face, and soils  my shirt

He said it's only for now, not long at all.
I count the days until I feel your warmth
But forever with him, feels like a second
While a single goodbye somehow assumes an eternity

My mother always told me
I can be who I want to be
When it's time to take my daydreams
and turn them into reality
From the babbling blank drools
that hold my future,
to the passion that burns
just like empty calories.
What kind of life will I lead
Will I lead or will I follow
Who is the face that stares and
glares through the fountain reflection
only waiting to be freed

But sweet darling,
never stop questioning
if your aspirations will leave you
wrong and hollow or even if
you sulk, filled with sorrow.
But please, dear being, remember
I will be who I will be
and I choose to be happy