Cruelest Month
I get the argument that April is the cruelest month
Every spring it all comes storming back
Flaunting it in our faces
Bloom after fucking bloom
But not for us.
Just one blossoming for the likes of us
And the bulk of our petals have already fallen
December is a different kind of suffering
Carved out of modern time as a marketing scam
Driven by quarterly Capitalist sales demands
Did I buy enough?
Was I too selfish?
Did I waste a year of life?
Will I ruin Christmas?
And how all that phony nostalgia and Auld Lang Syne
Preys upon our sense of running out of time
It’s just winter, I tell myself
Next month will be even colder
So many things are dying
Even the snow wants to melt
The grass has given up on green
I struggle just to stay warm
December tries to trick us into thinking
A mere flip of the calendar
Cleans the slate
A full factory reset, wherein,
By some miracle, we all get another chance
In this brand new year
But we ought not fall for that
It’s just a long trek forward, unrefreshed
Only a year older, jankier, and wearier
At least April is honest
Showing how the world replenishes
Itself when we’re gone,
How it carries on
Just fine without us
December is the young vixen
Whispering libidinous longings in your ear
When all she really wants is your money
The days now are so short
Late afternoon is darker than the cobwebbed crawlspace
In the abandoned barracks of the skeleton army
You have to become broken enough
To write by the light that shines
Through your shattering of fissures,
A glow that strengthens with a proper aging
It requires a certain kind of courage
To live as if you only get one life
Blocked out in four week chunks
With December as the very last month
Pegged to a wall, interminably flapping
In the breeze like an intractable curse
We’d be a lot happier if we listened to April
But we’d rather die
Than lose our sense of self
And so here we are, maudlin fools
Checking off dates, working
Our way through hours and months
Right up until the stroke
Of midnight, on December 31st.
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