The autumn sky is a deep black bruise and I drown in its ache. 

What a strange feeling— 

for someone who loves words, 

I can’t name this… 

this is what I know; 

it hurts to breathe, 

I tremble upon anyone’s touch, 

under anyone’s gaze, 

so I left for someplace 

lonely— 

now I walk towards 

an unnamed destination 

fingers frigid, 

socks soaked, 

back buried by a bloated backpack; I can go anywhere I want; 

and yet I can’t, 

not really. 

I close the umbrella and the salt on my face is gently washed off. I find a tree and press my unsalted cheeks to the drenched bark; 

I don’t stop 

even as passing couples 

stare. 

I don’t stop until the prickling 

sensation turns to pain. 

It seems I can’t tremble on my own, 

so I walk and walk with no thoughts (shouldn’t there be thoughts?) 

I walk and walk 

until a middle-aged man in a silver car eyes me through his greasy window and slows down his vehicle, 

pulling over to park, 

eyes still locked on my frame // I pace quickly 

and run and run until I reach the end of a street three blocks away. 

I’m not sure how to get back home and while that would usually terrify me, I seem to be much more terrified of the unnamed feeling // 

the feeling that brought me here to drown in autumn’s bruised night. What is it? what is it? 

what’s wrong? 

I don’t know.