poem

We’re not dead yet

Winter’s grip around my neck

Is starting to melt…

And I can feel those herniated discs

Slowly retreating.

November, December

You did nothing to comfort me.

And you can fuck yourself.

your ice paralyzed me.

January, February

Determined and with muscle

Was the only way to escape you.

Now March into April with me.

What was once soft

Like a porcupine’s belly

Is akin to a turtle tummy.

And I don’t care.

Spring flowers will soon bloom.

Robins will eat worms.

and I’ll cycle again.