the trees are all dead now. the first time i noticed this was yesterday morning, when i felt them looming over me, the branches. plastered against that milky canvas above, jagged twigs rattling, naked against their will. they look like they don’t want to be there. they don't know how lucky they are. i'm stuck on the ground. i'm stuck walking, away from everything, from everyone, from eyes that don't watch me leave, mouths that laugh when i'm gone. i leave the sun behind me and it scorches the back of my neck. i leave the moon and it whispers lies to the clouds. i don't care. i don't care what they say. i don't need anything. i wish i could run, i wish i could fly. i wish i could hang in the sky, stretch upwards like the dead tree branches, unreachable. but i'm stuck here. and it's cold. and i keep letting people see me. please be gentle, november.