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don't fall. but, is.

They slide down There’s fog

your legs like The kind that

a JISM that sticks to your

shouldn't be face and leaves

sliding DOWN a film you can

your inner feel when you

thigh. blink. The kind

that burns eyes.

The tree c o u g h s and something pale oozes down its

bark in slow slow slow d r i p s you try not to lick it.

You lick it. Pumpkins aren't decorations. They're soft

as bruises, leaking from the bottom like they’re

sweating their own insides. You walk. The path appears

where September swore there wasn’t one. It’s covered in

leaves that s t i c k to your ankles and whisper like

horny Men. There’s a porch light flickering like it’s

trying to spell something but forgot how letters work.

Its red. It wants you to come. Inside.