May

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
-T.S. Eliot "The Waste Land"

Words have never rung truer T.S.. This April has bought the doom of life into fruition with a ferocity reserved only for the blackest days of ones existential burden. ive watched friends collapse under the sorrow of loss, losing their minds in chemical madness. ive seen aged couples, heavy with the intimacy of time gone by, search frantically for suicide notes that were never left, and they eventually stopped looking because with each breath carbon monoxide stole from the dark garage air, there was nothing left of a life to be found. ive listened to pleas for the lord to give just one more day to a gorgeous young grandmother and then the weeping after because cancer trumps god and that, in the end, is that. ive sat on the phone for hours silent and waiting for a close friends fathers lungs to collapse and when they did the crash boomed and echoed like a nuclear bomb went off in the basement and i waited then patiently for the roof of April to cave in on me.

when i hear the lock in the door twist i start and smile and i know she will come straight to my arms and hold me and breathe heavily into my ear and ask how i feel, if im hungry or tired, if i need a drink. i know im shielded with medication and i know that im a shell. i delicate, brittle shell. i can break at any moment. i know i have to remain steady, or that i can fall and shatter into a million pieces. people see this. people treat my like this, so i know.

i was going to write something funny and clever but its the end of April, the cruelest month, and i feel it deserves a somber final entry.

May, im sure, will be filled with laughs.

but just for kicks: poot. i farted.

end bit.