It is October and I write poems out of melancholy need.

Tucked in my bed thinking of lovers lost, left, real, and imagined.

I ruminate over a broken heart and shattered pieces of self.

I want to think that my heart isn’t so broken anymore, and the shattered portions have come together.

But nothing feels right.

How long can a person live with heartache?

Will I always feel this way?

Waiting for someone to make it better because I haven’t seemed to figure it out.

There’s a chill in the air. Enough to  seep through and make my bones ache.

The calendar says October, but I want to dress for December. I just can’t bring myself to wear gloves and a scarf yet.

I am stubborn.

True cold fast approaches and I am not ready.

I went to a nerdy craft show. Thought I’d dress up and be cute.

Also I’ve been playing with this app that let’s me add fun filters and overlays.

Life as of late has been simple.

I moved into a new  apartment with a good friend. We’re enjoying it. Today we planned the housewarming.

I hurt my knee recently. I was jogging. I stepped wrong somewhere. I have a possible meniscus tear. I’ll need physical therapy that I haven’t signed up for.

My mornings are filled with poetry and  melancholy. It’s fall. That’s what I tell myself.

I am lonely is the reality.

I fear that my youth is fading and soon no one will want me.

I get scared that my body isn’t appealing and so no one will want me.

But I pretend I am not filled with these fears.

Speak to me of beauty.

Tell me of the things that bring you joy.

Tell me of those beautiful creatures that do not try, but simply are.

Whisper the secret of beauty, which I long to know, and give to me the hidden knowledge of the poets.

Let us create beauty and spread it to the ugly lonely places.

Look at me and see beauty. Find in me what I cannot.