Dear September

I desire to slew 

you with no fare

well, as I sit back 

and wait for the 

breeze to fill my 

lungs ablaze for 

weeks on end.

I want you to know;

that it's not the 

disappointment 

that hurts, or the 

betrayal, it is the 

WAIT....

Wait is like autumn, 

and I am a trifling 

sycamore leaf that 

dries and crackles 

under your feet.

When you call me 

from beyond the 

night sky I no longer

feel guilty to have

the urge to say -

'I have the right to choose.'

I was once viridescent

I thought my beauty 

is perennial, fresh.

I can be sanguine,

I can be valorous,

I can be righteous,

I can be obstinate,

I can be cider and 

still be eye-catching,

I can be me...

But I can not be anguished.

I don't allow the

drew drops to 

tumble, today I 

caught three on 

the sleeve of my 

amazon coating; 

biting my veins to 

fight the pain, with 

neverending pain.

Dear September, 

a portion of me 

knows that I am 

susceptible but 

those "what ifs"

remembrances 

from before creates 

a cacophony of 

noises louder than 

my sight can decipher.

You aren't even gone yet,

I still flinch as soon 

as the bees buzz,

It is hard to swallow 

the accusations as 

I have to crave per-

mission to be happy.

I make sure I leave 

no dust on your 

tombstone, I even 

carry a herbicide;

named insecurities,

as you pass by like 

any other month 

I want you to know 

that I'm still searching

for something to believe in.