seasons | 7.14.26
how is it
that i can hate myself with words forgotten by the people who gave them to me
distaste fresh on my tongue
the nostalgia of the flavor bringing me back to every punch that stung
emotionally
and physically
summer should taste like the sun
fireflies and fresh fruit in a patch of shade
but the warm air is suffocating
and i can feel the fear trembling my lips as he backs me into a corner
blocking out the light
winter should taste like comfort
pine and presents and the presence of love
but it’s cold where my back is pressed against the wall
and he locks the door
and it’s everything but love
how is it
that i can collect a quarter of a century
and not one touch that came without conditions
not one love that came without a clause
broken by my autonomy
or my maintenance of self
of health
of kindness and courtesy and the decency that any human should allow another
so instead i bare the summers
the stifling heat pressing too close for comfort
and my words held back with heavy air, encompassed
and i push through the winters
locking the doors, praying the cold won’t enter
and wondering if that’s enough to keep myself safe
because it never was,
before
