Tepid waves seethe across my body as I melt back into subtile remorse. I am no longer myself, when the sun rises and I cease to realize the severity of my grief. When will I exhale the poison I've interwoven within my lungs. Stagnant, acrid, tarnished with the thoughts of waking up as someone else, waking up somewhere else, just being anything else. How long can I soak in melodramatic tendencies before I'm too old to change the way I felt in winter. The way I felt when leaves changed and hit the crisp ground, when my breathe clung to the air on my break during night shift. When I smelled the change of the seasons that brought with them familiar thoughts of sleeping six feet under. One day I might change my view, I might make it out to somewhere that feels like home. I'll no longer be stuck out of place, out of time, hoping to catch the next ride over to the other side. Autumn won't remind me how much I hate myself. The leaves won't force me to reminisce about the days I've spent under the blankets avoiding life and the tremendous responsibility that comes with my loathing. One day I'll be happy. One day I'll wake up motivated and with purpose. One day the last thing I'll think about "what about today?"