Early Season

This year it came in August.
Usually November waits for me,
holiday windows swelling with light,
the city draped in noise.

But now the weight presses early.
I wake at 5:30,
wear a face that makes a difference,
gather nods and shoulder taps,
tiny drops in the cup that insists
my life is still worth pouring.

By night I return to the only place
that knows my shape.
The bed folds around me like a secret.
I scroll,
watch the same show again,
feel my soul thin to fumes.

Outside, summer turns uncanny.
Greens lean darker,
the air bruises cooler at the edges.
Autumn arrives before its time,
pressing against my sternum.

I ache watching the world
turn beautiful as it dies.
Loneliness stains the air sharper
than woodsmoke.

I don’t know if the fixing would save me
or undo me further.
Still, I wait,
as if the wrong season
might carry me back into myself.

Meg Taylor is a writer whose work explores resilience, mental health, and the quiet rebellions of daily life. Her poetry has been featured in The Write Launch, Wingless Dreamer, and WILDsound Writing Festival. She believes in sharp lines, honest voices, and the occasional sarcastic punch.