My Birth Month
August, you arrive like a melting pot of new and shattered memories, weaving intricate waves of sorrow and harsh sunlight with each day that steps by. Once the vibrant peals of laughter and petals of flowers leave, the scent of ashy fireworks comes tumbling down like raining fire, and I can’t help but listen to the songs of old. You see, the grass blades are scratching at my back, and when I turn and flex to find a better peace, my scapula might pierce through and form tiny wings that never grew. Memories will flicker in my mind in black and white, and the music and tone of them will linger like persistent fog that clings to my heart. Though I might enjoy the snack of something cold, the liquid will slowly pour down my fingers, and my skin might just curl up with disdain. Does anyone genuinely like August? You’re just an unwelcoming intruder who enjoys haunting and whispering the warmth of wind into my eyes, and in my opinion, something you love should only be cooling, not unbearably hot. You represent the ugly, bitter echo that might be wistful and pass time on silently, but the world will collectively mourn the landscapes of fallen gray and beauty, the skies once blue turn indigo in heaped pressure that lays down on our bodies, and the sound of our blood once rushing will fall loud in our ears, red like a blushing dusk, and the moon won’t help but show it’s face while mine stays hidden in the relentless seasons that follow after Gatsby’s passing. The sweet smell of summer and the relentless noise of parties lead into eerie twilight, finding the unspoken burden of cleaning up the decay that follows. Still, I can’t help but lie next to you, listening to your soul guide by, and hope another year will pass unapologetically. Leaving is easy; staying with you is hard.
by Fatima Azeem
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