cries-of-the-past

August still feels like an ending. Maybe because this one is:                   I'll miss you,                   warm from birth,                         though                   I'm sure I'll see you                         screaming: after all, I still hang mirrors for traitors, and sometimes catch a glimpse.

I'm not angry I'm a severed hand with manicured nails an open letter scattered everywhere he wants to drown in your sunshine I'm pulling strings connected to pins connected to limbs in place it's night where your heart should be I'm not beautiful I'm a tantrum in throws this nose is known to know everything like those first whispered bedroom words I'm a low missing consonant sound with no constant around reap unsown stumbling