Summer burns within me,
with white-hot hatred and gentle love,
Hateful for this world and those put in charge,
hateful for those who bite into hearts,
hateful for how they enjoy the blood running down their chin.
Loving those who are there when I reach for them,
loving the ones who hold me at night,
loving the eyes that see me, the hands that hold mine.
I am learning to hate what I can change,
and to love what I cannot.
Summer is ending,
but I’m afraid autumn will be no less stark.
Fire is supposed to bring rebirth,
but what if it scorched too deep?
What changed if nothing is different?
What can I grow inside myself,
if the rest of the world is dead?