The end of summer makes me angry

like a stomping brat

I want to say no

I want to scream to the darkening days

I want to cry at the heat abandoning me

My ambitious glow is set on go

I’m angry at the shortened sun

I don’t care how delicious I think cinnamon and cloves smell

and taste

I won’t let you see how beautiful I know the colors are

in the sleeping trees

or how the orange air feels blue in my lungs

My first fit of disappointment will continue

until spring

(when I’ll appear a busy lion)

and I promise it’ll be worse in winter


my bleeding hands are chopped up with tiny cold axes

I wear layers over my cartooned skin


warm hats

warm glares

I’d rather miss it in my soul than experience it

forget me not flowers

are magic

she’s in there