I was born in autumn and it still lives inside of me. I kill the things I love most, I hand them over to the cold months. What good is beauty when a part of me is always dying? I am still cyanide, no matter how much I may taste like syrup. I'm still working on self-love; I will fight until my pupils dilate every time I look at myself in the mirror. But for now, anxiety is an ocean that I run towards and let myself drown in. On some days, I swear, I am in love with this darkness that is mine to roam in.