March snaps Its jaw at me like It always does, more hungry than grateful for another meeting. again, all It wants is a year where i don’t knock on the door. or a year where It tears out my throat. but Its teeth find only dew and too many hours in the sunlight, a new bloom of spring flowers opening along Its lips.
the month is a chained beast that spends the whole year gnawing Its way through birthday cards and an ever-shorter supply of goodwill. a beautiful thing grown gaunt and wretched in Its neglect. again, unappreciated and dreaded. hated in a way that i know It hasn’t earned.
i say another lie that i tell myself is truth, and i promise March that i’ll free It next year. again, i shut the door and leave the beast to fester through the seasons. It does not even protest. this is a tragedy i do not know how to stop. doomed from the start.
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