i am not seasonally affective

my wrists have been the cleanest for the longest time now
and yet the autumn leaves in my veins
have been running cold,
on the verge of a white winter
where christmas is an empty
fireplace burning from the
homeliness between the faint
frosted lines
once etched deep in my flesh against the
lambency of summer light
falling through my bleeding windows
at two am in the morning.

maybe if i’d read between those lines earlier
the spring wind from my
springy footsteps would’ve
licked up the abasement of how i am no longer
spelling bee champion, the way my
newly heated fingers against the
weakening glare of thinning, hollow
twigs, struggling to break free from the wrath of promised
happiness,

no longer know how to spell
ambition.

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