I think it's just something about this time of year.
When the weather echoes warm memories,
family vacations, and
nights that never saw sleep -
into neighborhoods blanketed in fallen leaves,
cold - sharp winds that show little mercy to suffering cheeks,
and silent nights throughout city streets.
Something about the change of seasons always brings out the memories that I avoid the most.

I wish this type of nostalgia wasn't so bittersweet.
It's the type of "throwback"
that throws me back into a state of feeling nothing…
a state being nothing.

If I knew anything more
than the depression
that my parents handed down to me
through genetics;
then maybe these memories
wouldn't radiate so thoroughly
throughout my being.
Maybe each night wouldn't be spent
going back and forth between
feeling every emotion in such severity
and
wishing I could feel anything at all.
Maybe I'd know more about myself
than the history I've suffered.

It's always around this time of year
when I try my hardest to recall the laughter;
but my mind has a sick sense of humor
and can only produce images of my dad
laughing at me
and the pain he'd caused
and later,
joking about my attempts at suicide -
he called me a FAILURE.

When I go outside to clear my mind -
the cold, bitter air against my skin
emulates the bitterness in my voice
when I let my anger lie to my mom and say
that she didn't deserve another child
because she already ******* up my brother and I...
out of hurt,
I told her that I hoped she lost my unborn baby sister.

A few weeks later,
my mother gave birth
to her third child
and my second younger sibling…
Still Born.

Irony is a *****.

If the cinema in my head
were to feature anywhere else,
I imagine I'd be charged
with attempted ******.
Because this time of year
resonates with memoirs
that prove strong enough to **** me…
but it's a new season.