Summer is ending and it feels like:
an unraveling.
Swirls of silken rage scatter my floor,
shredded to bits by the last snippet
of compassion I carry.
I fear I may have ripped open my seams
and forgotten to stitch the trauma back in,
I cannot function without its constant leering.
Summer is ending and it feels like:
bloodshot nights,
reptilian eyes,
absorbing tears into plush.
I am wasting ammunition
on word equations and citations
instead of straight shooting
for my future.
Summer is ending and it feels like:
the loss of freedom.
And, maybe,
a bit of my identity
swirled away in the soggy sorrow
of my September shower serenade.
By Katelynn Paluch
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