Death and Her Seasons

This was a poem I wrote in March of 2018. I wanted to go back and edit and be able to bring this poem back to life. This poem lives deep within me. I both loved and hated writing it. It is heavy, but it also is important.

I’ll never forget the way
January wrapped her arms around me
as she kept me safe from my own mind,

winter always
seems to be calling for death-

I see casket and February
as two words with the same meaning

but when I read more suicides
happen in spring
than any other time of year,

I felt the bones of my soul breaking-

How do you grieve a body
that has never actually left?

especially when that body
belongs to you;

I wonder
will March hold me in her arms
just as January did,

will casket and April
begin their transition into one,

will the little hope
I possess begin to
dwindle from my body

only to become lifeless in May

as June gently places
me into her soil;

perhaps I will make it through the spring
to feel the gentle touch of July

as she begs me to
just give August a chance

will September be just as kind as February

will October love me like nobody else does

will November, the month of my birth,
be able to keep me from death

as she passes me safely off to December
only to have January wrap me in her arms

once again as she promises me:

this year will be better,

this year will be different,

this year will be less lonely;

these months pass me from one to the next

they whisper how their soil
is not good enough for my bones yet

I tell them I want to be a tree-
I know spring is the best time for planting.

but today I will listen to March
as she quietly pleads
to let her pass me to April unharmed

so April can tell me
how the twelve of them love me
even though nobody else does,

so tonight I will let March hug me
and love me like nobody else does

and with tears streaming down my face
I will try to hold on

even if it is just for the night.

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