And as the night grows old,

And the stars glisten bright,

And the moon shines bold,

I start to think they may have been right.

Because now I do not care about how my stomach hangs

Not under this night sky.

Or how I once had choppy bangs,

And thought I may die.

I do not care how I may look,

Not with my dull hair or stretch marks,

Because not everything has to be by the book.

At least, not when the sky is this dark.

Now I'm sure as the sun rises,

I will start comparing myself to others.

Slipping back to my old vices,

Because I have never been a self-lover.

But for eight hours every night

I do not have to cower.

Not until I see the light.

Until then, I won't nit-pick and devour.

So I sit under the moon,

Shivering and cold.

Hoping day does not come too soon,

And watching as the night gets old.

Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

Look at what we have here... Three off the top to make this morning dream-like and drunk in the alleyways lit with poems and beauty, and the steel breath of these writers.

Here's the way to it.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CLZG5JpV3sc

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

The darkness had been consuming me.

And I liked it.

But it was taking me further than I'd agreed to go.

Cut. Cut. Cut. Deeper this time. Cut. Cut. Cut. It'll take away the pain of being alive and not living.

But a light was chasing me, trying to pierce through my darkness. I ignored it.

Until I didn't.

Once I took hold of that light with both hands, my darkness scattered and I finally started to live.

If I were blind, I'd know it was fall because of the pumpkin spiced coffee. Its seasonal flavor bursts onto my tongue while hot, pumpkiny, and frothy.

Standing under the sky, I'd feel the painted leaves as they fell from their tree. I'd feel the autumn wind dancing on my skin, wild and free.

No, I wouldn't have to see to know the trees have shifted. Because clothes get snugglier, and all the limited coffees gets taste tested.