October 13

The sky is deceptively blue today
And bugs whine in the Indian summer heat

(Is it still an Indian summer if it happens every year?)

I woke up late
Which is to say I woke up at the same time I always do
Which is to say I have no reason to get up in the morning
Which is to say I do but I can’t see it with this heavy

Depression

Blanketing my fogged thoughts

So I sleep instead and try to remember dreams
(nightmares)
That I wish I could write into reality

Which is to say I could –
I’m a writer you know –
But I have this nothingness surrounding my peony heart

It’s a numbness I guess, but also
lethargy
Deathly silent
But simply nothing at the same time

I wonder if I really am a writer
Or if that, too, was a “phase” just like they said my sexuality would be

But now in this time that should be autumn
I feel like it’s the end of something
Because endings are just so much simpler

Or maybe it’s just October 13
And nothing is so significant after all

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