Of course
I was born
when October
was dying.
When trees
were already learning
how beautiful
letting go could look.
When the air smelled
like wet earth,
wood smoke,
and something ancient
moving between worlds.
October 30.
A daughter
of the almost-dark.
One foot
in birthday candles,
the other
already stepping
toward Samhain.
Maybe that is why
I have always loved
things with teeth.
Storms.
Ghost stories.
Women who refuse
to stay buried.
Maybe that is why
I know how to sit
beside grief
without asking it
to become pretty.
I am Scorpio-born—
which does not mean
I am mysterious.
It means
I learned early
how many times
a woman can die
without anyone
holding a funeral.
I have shed skins
in bedrooms,
courtrooms,
hospital hallways,
bathrooms
with the tap running
so no one could hear me cry.
I have buried
whole futures.
Still,
every autumn,
something in me
returns.
Black-winged.
Barefoot.
Carrying matches.
I do not fear
the dark season.
I recognize it.
The darkness
has never meant
nothing grows here.
Some things
simply prefer
moonlight.
And tomorrow,
the veil will thin.
But tonight,
I am the thing
standing between worlds—
thirty-one candles burning,
and not one of them
a prayer
for permission.
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