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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