Winter feels like the buckle of that long strong leather belt Father uses on me every time I go astray. It never ceases to make my skin crisp and peel off. It makes me keep to myself, the same way winter’s skin grabs cold.
Spring tastes like my blood at the end of every night after ‘play’. It has a metal taste to it, how ironic. It’s supposed to rebirth and rejuvenate colourful flowers, but in my case, a monster blossomed.
Summer smells like my mother’s cooking, filled with peri-peri that’s enough to make your nostrils flair with anger. It makes your mouth water but when it’s finally here, heat is a no-brainer.
Autumn sounds like the loud wolves howling outside because the night has gotten longer. The fiery red leaves by the gigantic tree rustle their way throughout the night, not knowing they are my lullaby.
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