fuck april
Try it:
try sinking
into this dull
suburban depression-
nothing major, mind you,
no epic Zelda-scale crackup,
nothing artsy as Sylvia or Virginia
those frail-spirited women who
didn’t so much fall apart as swoon
ever so gracefully out
of life’s tenuous hold
No. Not like that. Just
cradle angst in winter-dry hands,
get a little fat with it.
Stop brushing your hair.
Eat more chocolate than usual;
smile less.
Then blame it on the weather.
Blame it on the pill, on your
fumbling boyfriend,
on the time of day.
Burn a few bridges,
then wish you hadn’t,
but be too proud
to build them back.
Hold the day in the palm of your hand,
then let it slip through clumsy fingers,
reflexes too slow,
or hands too busy clenching,
or furrowing in pockets,
or untangling your unwashed hair.
Curl up in bed, alone.
Just say you only want to hibernate
til April comes; then you’ll wake up.
Glue the calendar down at February.