My name is Autumn.
I am the colour red—vibrant, scarlet, until the days sink in and time washes the youth away. Red—like the colour of maple leaves that riddle the land of my country. I am not evergreen, not the colour of the vegetation that sparsely covers my former home. They exhibit a certain degree of stability that I fail to maintain. It both makes me and breaks me.
I am the flash at the edge of your eyes.
I don’t blow up in full view, but I edge into your vision inch by inch, and one day, when I’m all you see, you won’t know how I came to be.
I am a concoction of passion and pain and everything in between.
Taste me and you will find the overpowering bitterness of my cynicism, and the sweet aftertaste of my romanticism.
Do not expect me to last—I wither away like yellowed greenery. And although you will find in me, inspiration, I will infect your pretty petals until all that is left is the ghost of your former glory.
My name is Autumn.
I will seduce you with my colours and diversity, but I will demand polygamy. You can claim me, but others have attempted—all you will claim is a piece of me.
I am yours, I am his, I am everybody else’s—I belong to the world.
I will love you hard and love you fast, yet I will leave you fast, and leave you falling hard.
You will tell me you love me and I will surrender to you. I will build my walls around you until you learn to love my bombastic language and dramatic effect. Although I will try to guard you within, my distance and indifference forms an inverse relationship with your growing affection. Worse still, I will grow disgusted with your notions of eternity and leave you inside, struggling to crawl out of my vivacious hellhole.
I will infect you red, like an ugly scar.
My name is Autumn, and all I do is Fall.
I will leave and inspire madness in its wake. You will not see it coming.