Everyday, every experience, changes, replaces a small piece of you
For better or worse.
I may never come home the same,
Even if I am the same in name.
How long until I’m no longer me?
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September
I hate September. It’s the worst month, one of indecision, as if nature can’t make up her mind on whether to burn or ice us out. Either way, I know she’s restless. And frankly, so am I. Showers in September are lukewarm, food is middling, my hair can’t decide to smoothen out or frizz up, and my hands are either clammy or Saharan. September smells like bittersweet blueberries, the excitement of school friends and fresh clothes, new subjects in old ripped pages, the dread of leaving behind sunnier, freer days.
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