Perhaps I’m still addicted to the sweetness of the pain. Perhaps the fruit that poisons is the one I hunger for because the suffering gives cause to air complaint. So I rest beneath the trees with little shade, whose caustic pitch runs down to burn my eyes and bloom the tears I need to reap some trust I’m still provided feeling, whose bark leaves splinters in my skin acquainting me with reasons to respond and validation for this urge to slight relief, because relief is much too silent and in silence lies no guarantee that I’ll be heard.

Perhaps the colder days and whithered leaves preserve my body more than warmth, the darker hours weather less than those the sun attends, and so to save myself from dying I remain in winter.

Perhaps in spring I see too clearly I’m diseased, so I loiter in the fall and harvest grief to sate the guilt of cutting seasons short to profit off of sympathy when contentedness can’t propagate the solace that I crave.

#paris #france

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