October
Autumn leaves fall like all the times I did for you.
The rain— cold on my skin, but warmer than you ever made me feel.
A couple boys with pretty faces and commitment issues can’t tear me down
because that’s your job.
I listen to music I love instead of trying to steal the radio.
I think more about what I need to do for myself
instead of what you want me to do for you.
The month of October brings rain, brings fog,
bring another thirty-one days of not talking to you,
and I am happier than I have been the past few years that I’ve been painfully attached to you.
I can dance in the mirror.
I can get drunk at the bars.
My newfound friends check up on me when the champagne I pour isn’t bubbly.
My strength holds more weight that I’d ever thought it could bare,
and I always feel heartbreakingly free from the traps you set up
to catch my ankles and my feet.
No angel walks around with her halo with ease,
and I never thought that that angel could be me
after being doused in gallons and gallons of your Hellish gasoline.
The month of October, they say, is spooky
but nothing will ever be scarier than the girl I used to be.
The one who was submissive to your screaming,
silent to your anger,
and sweet to your sour.
I get called beautiful,
not by a taunt that expects my body to curve into the flow of bedsheets later on that night,
but in genuine admiration that makes me scared to try and feel love,
even though it will be more true than any form you ever pretended to provide to me.
In the month of October,
I feel like those women whom move on quickly,
not because it’s easy,
but because they know it’s an honor to anyone who is blessed their presence.
Women who knock rarely make history,
and I plan on never stopping my feet from hitting the concrete as I run towards the sunset.
I drink dirty chais, and read Hemingway.
I begin to love myself more than I did before I knew you, in my turtle-neck sweater, soft on my collarbone.
The month of October truly sets me free—
sets me on fire like big, bright stars,
and I outshine your pathetic attempt at constellations.
The month of October is my beginning, my muse,
my moment of feeling warm in my own skin.
In the month of October, I feel safe again.