Seasons

Megan Spreadbury

I cut my fingers on my soul

told too many people

to leave me behind

while they grew old

because they shouldn’t

have to know

the sharp pieces

 

I sat in a tent

cautioned off

from society

because here lies

someone who died

not too long ago

mentally

 

I scraped my knuckles on concrete

willed my words

to remove the incomplete

signs

left scattered

in the middle of meetings

greeting strangers on sidewalks

because they might

realize

I should come with

a warning label

 

I forgot about myself

for a minute

it was summer

and I was somewhere

the life detour

toward deaths reminder

couldn’t reach me

 

I ignored the preaching reminder

that no matter

how often life ridiculed

people

for drowning in their own

sorrow

I would never be

happy

 

I suffocated

for a single

second

and I knew

peace

 

I sliced my palms on

harsh truths

whispered in the shadows

open, uncouth

and burning

in a slender format

that didn’t match

the font

I thought

I was written in

 

I berated my intelligence

for hiding the fear

of imprisonment

in a body

that wouldn’t understand

how to handle me

 

I buried my soul in cold weather

abandoned banter

and hoped

no one would find it

under the snow

when a warm spring

made it melt

 

I prayed

for silence

and pleaded

with the heavens

in the hope

I wouldn’t be

gone

when I finally found myself