Leaves

The autumn is difficult. Unnecessarily tied to the leaves, I am drawn to step on the ones curled into fetal positions: the helpless ones. You raised your foot last year; now I step on the leaves. I am satisfied by the thick crunch that erupts. I kept my pain hidden in my room, sequestered as it grew colder. Down the wooden hall, you could hear me cry. Everything grows colder. Days distance you from me, and I don’t hear from you anymore. In the spring, I thought I had recovered; the new buds on the trees were tiny green flags, indicating my home stretch. Home free. Fuck this awful place. Fuck this place inside where leaves are ever dead. Piles of them collect and I don’t even have the pleasure of burning them, and smelling the spiced smoke. Piles of...