you are so delicate, like feather pillows and angel wings yet you offered me the knife to cut you off from me, and autumn happens in each season where leaves fall like pinned up pictures on your wall tumbles to the dusty corners of the bed or hides in the closets like skeletons and happiness is hard to find, but it's so much easier finding new ways to miss you when remainders of reminders are hidden in the nooks and crannies of my endless jumble of miswired thoughts, and the inside of your soul is just a house of mirrors for every personality you perfect on your face with such ease i wish the mirrors would shatter, and i would throw the knives at all of them already and see the truth