All Truly Wicked Things Start From Innocence
The colorful leaves on the trees are wilting, and your eyes are cold and emotionless.
By 
Sage Antonia
Autumn.
Your eyes looked like the leaves that surrounded the ground beneath us. They were dim but somehow the brightest things I’ve ever seen. They seemed to always have a story behind them—a ballad to sing, a poem to speak, a glimmer of hope that sparked alive the hidden sunshine that resided within the depths of me.
Winter.
Throughout the icy grounds and the shivering bones, you were the only thing that ever kept me warm. It was a naive type of love, the kind you read about in novels, the kind that makes you want it in the cold months as well as the warm ones. The fire-lit nights that you spent memorizing my brain will forever be engraved into my soul. The way you traced the wet streaks that the snowflakes left on my body will forever be etched into my skin.
Spring.
The bright flowers and the illuminating leaves that surrounded me could never compare to the beauty within you. The sound of rain sprinkling onto your window could never drown out how the words “I love you” sounded when they left your lips. Suddenly the thunder boomed and the lightning bolted, and the foundation we stood on began to shake. The sky became gloomy and so did your words, and finding a safe place to hide my heart from the storm became my most important vice.
Summer.
They say all truly wicked things start from innocence. No amount of ice pops could mask the bitter taste you left on my lips. No amount of flings could fill the emptiness you left behind. No vacation could help me escape the ruins you left inside my heart. The hottest days felt impeccably cold without your hands holding mine—I remember no freezing body of water could ever shock me half as much as your abandonment did. The ocean was no longer intriguing to me—it only ever reminded me of her aqua eyes and how mine were only murky in comparison.
Autumn.
The colorful leaves on the trees are wilting, and your eyes are cold and emotionless. They are no longer beautiful; they are dim, and somehow the brown specks within them became the darkest thing I have ever seen. They no longer have a story to tell. I haven’t seen them for what feels like years. Somehow, the thought of them puts out my sunshine and brings out the darkness you’ve planted into the depths of me. 
