The pale girls, dressed in peach-colored silk dresses, dance around in ballet styles, though they seem like they're making up their own moves, gracefully leaning everywhere. They're so beautiful. I want to touch 'em, want to feel their grace and complete my own so I don't have to lose my lungs anymore. I want their beauty, their perfect moves, so I can be just...not this anymore.

I hate it. Used to love it, but do you see me now? I'm an utter disgrace. But God tells me, "You're not a disgrace - you're My creation. So you could never be something in any relation to disgrace," and I stand out in the cold, scattered pieces of who I am shattered beneath my black-plaster converse shoes, and just nod.

My hero cries as we stand out there in the cold, but he doesn't know that. He's weak. But he's my hero, calling my name, sucking the breath out of my skinned lungs. Without hesitation, he swipes his bladed fingers across my back, but my hands clench at my sides and my mouth clenches my teeth together. The soupcon of his exhale in my cold heart tastes like snuff and energy drinks; I bite my tongue and let it bleed hard. And when I glance at him, I see me. Blood speckles the ice between us.

He ambles away into the cold, leaving me and thinking I'll ponder that he loves me, but it's trickery. Nothin' more. I shove my hands into my pockets to lower my head down crookedly and see my dark reflection in the icicles of an autumn leaf. Oh leaf, I wish we both had somethin' to hold on to. But there's not a lot of branched trees around nowadays, nothing to lift our spirits to, stretch as far as we can and see our something's, but even dads can't offer a wooden limb. Gonna have to get a medico to stitch up my tongue, but that's not the only thing that needs stitching up, especially since my withered days have made me walk through the weary woods, humming to myself, "All these autumn leaves, all these autumn leaves, all these autumn leaves are yours tonight."