Strip

Sometimes I forget that the wine red leaves outside my school are for spring and summer. I find myself wondering if perhaps autumn is here again to kiss my cheeks with its winds and rains. I like autumn. It isn't so harsh as winter or summer. It isn't overly optimistic like spring. Autumn simply is. It's a time of harvest. It's a time of satisfaction.

I like autumn.

More and more I'm beginning to become... I don't know, rebellious? Towards my misgivings of my grandfather. This furthers my harboured hate for him, helps it fester, helps it grow like a mould in my heart. I hate him. Hate everything about who he is.

I wish he was like he use to be. I use to love him. I love the memory of him. But I do not love this rotting body in my home.

I hate the way he looks at me. I want to scream, "Stop looking at me! Stop looking at these parts of me! You have no right!" I feel like he does it just to bother me. I can feel him staring at my back. And I hate it. I become resentful. "Do you hate me, too?" I want to ask. "Do you like making me feel this awful?" Every compliment is like an insult. I feel like I need to take a shower and burn my clothes if he comments that something looks nice.

He can never simply say something looks "nice." No, it has to be "sexy" or something else that makes me nauseous.

What right does he have to think of me in that light?

So I'm going to sit here, feeling disgusting, and live in this coffin with its rotting corpse and have a jolly old time.

'Till next time.