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

Published by

C. Brown

I write to breathe.

Leave a Comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s