Body series 26

 I am entrenched in the metaphor of fall

I cannot escape the synchronicity of pumpkin spice body lotion and apple picking themed phone backgrounds and skeletons on windows

I am an anthropologist, deconstructing the empty symbols of my own home

Drawn to conclude the inhabitant must worship some eldritch god of cinnamon and bones who breathes fire each year in honor of the maple leaves

I am entrenched in this metaphor of fall

And when I fall to sleep at night my blankets only seem to contain the slowly-creeping cold so determined to leach into my bones

And I refuse to turn on the heat until October 

And I pretend the weakening sunlight will still be bright enough to light my heart and ribs from the inside out

I watch the birds flee with the rest of the common sense

And all that's left to me is story telling and fire sides and pumpkin spice and the knowledge of winter sitting cold in the bottom of my heart.