Spring arrives like an obligation.
The world wakes up
and expects me to do the same.
Flowers open without permission,
green spreads everywhere
like I didn’t ask to be reminded
that growth is possible.
People call it renewal.
I call it pressure.
Because nothing inside me blooms,
and the sun keeps noticing.
Summer is exhaustion dressed as light.
Days last too long,
heat presses down on my chest
until breathing feels like effort.
Everyone is outside, alive, loud,
and I learn how lonely happiness can be
when you’re watching it from the shade.
Sweat, laughter, bare skin—
proof that I don’t belong
to this season.
Autumn doesn’t save me.
It just understands me.
Leaves fall because they’re tired,
not because it’s poetic.
The air turns sharp,
and finally something admits
that staying is impossible.
I walk through streets full of endings,
watch the trees undress themselves
without shame.
Letting go looks easy
when you don’t have a choice.
Winter is where I disappear.
Cold erases color,
silence grows teeth.
The sky lowers itself
until it feels like a ceiling.
I stop expecting warmth.
I stop expecting anything.
Even time moves carefully here,
as if afraid to disturb what’s already broken.
And when spring comes back—
because it always does—
I don’t celebrate.
I just wonder
how many times a heart
can survive the same year
without ever changing.