Seasons change.
Leaves turn,
And fall
Congregating in crumpled piles that we traipse through abjectly.

Coldness creeps in
Shrouded by the descending darkness.

An icy breeze slithers past protective layers
Caressing my neck,
Chills erupting in its wake.

Still.
Still?? I mutter angrily, condensation sneaking up my frames.
I hunker deeper into my fleece, despite increasingly limited vision,
And press forward into the raw darkness.

Dawn has yet to break

At first you were a joke, a gag-gift from my sister.

I gave you meaning. Put you on display in my home, announced to everyone that you were part of my identity

For years

I identified with you. Sometimes it hurt to look at, but mostly I was numb to it. You made me chuckle a bit too.

A self-deprecating joke I insisted on telling. Over. And over again.

Until last week, while I was cleaning out my apartment. I hadn’t seen you in months, I wasn’t sure if I missed you or not. I was surprised by how old and worn you looked. After a moment’s hesitation I threw you in my bag.

Today, we meet again. You catch my eye, and I pull you from the luggage decisively. Ripping off your label, I watch the crumpled “middle child” logo disappear into the trash can.

With the tattered, faded packaging removed, I see your smooth, transparent form. I can’t help but feel a little surprised by how nice you look, how good you smell.

I turn the shower on and undress. Climbing in with you in my grasp, I massage you into my washcloth. You lather beautifully and glisten in the water. “This is what I was made for,” I hear you whisper.

You are not your packaging. It doesn’t have a thing to do with your true purpose.

Im sorry I was distracted by your label for so long,

I’ve been hung up on mine as well.

I am a little mushroom.

Small,
bland,
a little dirty,
almost cute
in an undeniably pathetic sort of way.

I thrive in dark spaces,
crouching low to the ground.

The more I exist in this manner,
the more I identify with this label.

I am a little mushroom,
Leave me be.

You pad through your dark apartment, your footsteps lit only by the green glow of the microwave clock: 12:37 AM.

I’m waiting in the cold for you. You open the door and pull me inside. I can’t wait to taste you, you murmur as you hastily remove my hat.

You waste no time. I warm and meld to the shape of your hands. You lay me down.

From there, things heat up quickly. I begin to spread despite myself. My back arches reflexively, my center rising. I am melting from the intensity–I relax and give in to the laws of nature.

Within minutes I’m humming, sizzling.. about to burst. I hear you squeal with pleasure–you cool things down a bit. At first, I’m disappointed. Just for a minute, you promise.

You keep your promise. Moments later, you grasp me gently and raise me to your lips. I melt in your mouth. You moan with satisfaction.

As quickly as it started, it’s over. I’m back in the cold, hat on.

I’ll see you tomorrow night! You assure me as you close the door. I’m left in the dark.

Our surface is riddled with fractures. Years of tension and compression have left us inherently broken in this way. But this is normal, natural. A characteristic of any creation that has survived over time, evading its inevitable self-destruction.

Mostly, we ignore them. That’s what area rugs are for. Problem solved.

We exist in pseudo-harmony. We believe ourselves to be happy, healthy. These cracks are not lethal—not even noticeable—until movement begins.

The movement is unavoidable. We are dynamic beings. We shift, we stretch.

And suddenly, tension forms. Minute at first. Small enough still to pretend it doesn’t exist. I feel it at my surface, we have shifted slightly and have snagged each other somewhere.

Do I search for the point of tension? The exact spot where we’ve caught? Let’s address this now and release each other before the tension builds.

You choose not to join me on my quest. I search, but it’s no use. I can’t navigate our jagged edges alone. And so, we buy a thicker rug.

I am skeptical of this method, but you assure me, and I let it go. After all, it’s just a small hitch. No real harm can be done just yet. We have time.

Early the next morning, a massive quake jolts me awake. I’m thrown from my bed, the walls begin to crumb. I call out to you and find a massive rift between us. This wasn’t so small after all. It was bigger than I ever could have imagined.

I’m hurt, confused, frustrated, irritated, exasperated, angry. I’m angry.

You’re hurt and angry too.

This isn’t just a huge crack we must mend, our brittle exteriors are littered with microcracks as well.

We each sift through the rubble alone and lick our wounds.

Can we ever truly repair this? Is this how we end?

It’s a cold, damp evening. I am resignedly mending my fragile levee. A storm is coming, and I push through the numbness. I must. If I’m not careful, the raging waters will wreak havoc on my existence.

This dam is not secure. I step back and examine the patchwork design. The many leaks, attributable to years of halfhearted reinforcement.

Why do I even have this?

The question leaves my lips before I can stop it. The words linger in the air. It’s too late to take them back.

Just then, water begins to flow through a particularly weak point. I rush over. Back against my barrier, arms out wide, I stop it up with sheer willpower. Pure fear.

I stay like that for a long time. How long? I don’t know.

Is it finally time to show myself? I whisper, eyeing the slow trickle through one of the many cracks in my armor.

I look wildly around for external validation, knowing full well my efforts will be futile.

Not this time. This time I am the only voice that matters. I am the only witness to my imminent destruction and simultaneous release.

I am the only person in the world. This time, I give myself permission.

It’s time, I say softly to my leaky dam, my voice catches.

It’s time. Louder, as I step away and face my self-made barrier.

It’s tiiiime! I laugh manically, throwing my head back in the wind.

IT’S TIME!!!!!!!! I bellow, ripping boards loose, watching the current swell.

When it’s all over, I sit cross-legged, drenched. Surrounded by debris.

I stand up and smile to myself. Today, my life begins.

I walk upstream.

You sway imperceptibly in the wind. Despite yourself, you steal a glimpse down the block.

You see her standing tall and proud. Her elegant torso gloriously rooted, gracefully stretching up into the sun. Boasting fluffy bursts of the palest, gentlest pink florals.

People walk down the street and stare in awe of your neighbor’s blooms.

They steer right past you– you don’t exist.

Your twisting branches and gnarled bark stand naked, stark. You take up space. You are sturdy. But not in the desirable way– you’re sure of it.

The same breeze that ruffles the petals of your flawless neighbor- sending a gentle dusting to the ground, feels cold and sterile as it passes through your barren branches. It reminds you of your nakedness.

Your buds are held tight- like a woman in fetal position on the couch. They don’t dance in the wind. They wait patiently. They’re not quite ready for this world.

Cherry Blossom. Her name is as light and airy as she. Jealousy slithers down your spine.

Crab Apple. This summons imagery of mishapeness, tartness. Your name is also suitable, you think to yourself. You are the girl next door.

Day by day passes. You look down and find delicate petals blushing at your base, blown down the block. Reminding you of your lacking. You stare pointedly at your buds- still held tight. You sigh.