autumn tastes like cardamom and ash, like burnt leaves already-- the summer won’t leave us at least never willing. winter will touch your bones with early frost, eager to dull the red of your lips, to paint them blue, hungry for your kindness. you won’t ever need to write a single word, we have the script laid out for you, double spaced and fresh off the press. your opinions pre-packaged and pre- digested, for your convenience. we will replace you with a mannequin who smiles. and when you’re empty, we will shove cruelty inside the plastic thing who represents what you used to be and you’ll make us so proud, you’ll rip fragile plastic limbs off because what you are is a thing to be hated. you, the poetry of moth wings, you in the sweet stain of pigment on canvas, you, in the savoring of a string of stolen moments, you with her/his/their lips pressed to yours in a dream of tangled vines guilt and joy because you, y o u were born wrong. winter will steal all your colors