I fall apart a little bit every fucking day. A winter leaf still attached to a bare tree. Clinging, not by will, but just by the simple force of being unable to let go. But the wind comes, and the rain, then the snow. And my once green flesh fades to red, to orange, to yellow, to brown. I thin, I wither, and I curl, but still I hold fast to that twig. Soon I begin to crumble, a flake here, and a small puncture there. My once strong edges which are now frayed and feathered begin to disintegrate inward. I fall apart a little bit more every day, but I am still attached. I am coming apart from the inside, and being blown to bits from the outside. Soon there will be nothing left of me. If not from the brutality of winter, the new growth of spring will push me away. Once on the ground I will compost, and deteriorate until I am indistinguishable from the dirt. There I am, once a thriving, life-giving organism reduced to soft earth. And Every day, I fall apart a little bit.