I never liked February

I never liked February. There is a looming negativity in my sheets tonight. I don’t mind the cold. In fact I prefer it. The coolness of winter is not as isolating as you may think. I find the warmth of summer to be less comforting than my wool gloves with the missing thread. Sporadic tears with the names of my deceased pets. Incessant shaking to the rhythm of the song my mother chose for her funeral. You once told me warmth is comfort. Your warmth never stayed long enough for me to find out. February is right around the corner. Up the block and through the alley. The threads have chosen one event each. Inhale.

Isolation is not the conflict. I don’t mind being alone. I wouldn’t say I prefer it as I prefer the cold. I enjoy my own company. For the most part. Sometimes my thoughts become heavy. I never liked feeling heavy. February weighs more than any other month. Come to think of it I only enjoy about half of the months of the year. I wonder if the familiarity of my broken heart has numbed the reaction. Or has it grabbed me by the wrist and swayed me westward. To be broken over and over— to be led to my own demise by the tug on my wrist— it feels warm. Familiar. Air does not make me weightless. I feel my emotions seep from my pores like the sweat of my father’s anger. Inhale.

Winter in the city presents infinite reflection. I have discussed the cruelty of velleity. The man in front of the corner store uses every breath on a wish. They will buy him a sandwich because he surely cannot do it himself. Distrust among his torture of false hope. A trauma response sewn into my weighted blanket and a coping mechanism lay neatly on my pillow. Inhale. Distance grows between my heart and mind. Music guides me through the streets of Chicago— step by step into the windy city. How do I get home? I need to go home. I know this is not home. I know nothing else but that I am lost. Insouciant civilians leave footprints in the snow. I am struggling to follow their path. Eyes darting north and south. Taking bites of the past just to swallow them whole. Too bitter. Inhale.

I have never felt the isolation I am sure he does. I wonder if he shares my ill feelings towards this cruel month. If he knows what month it is. If he prefers the cold. If he prefers ham or turkey. I’m sure no one ever asks. He should be grateful. Grateful for the frozen days and hypothermic nights. For the handful of gum-stuck change he makes during rush hour. Distractions knock at my window. Inhale. Inhale the cedar scent of my candle and picture the woods where I will die. There is a flame in my eye’s reflection but I wonder if it burns within me. Threatens to spill from my tear ducts or the bite marks on my hands. I fear there is a bullet in my head. Not here. Not now. Inhale. Words in my mind turn to black splatter on a handmade page. I am plagued with knowledge— self awareness must be some sort of curse. One can seek answers, follow signs to the river, catch themselves a meal, let ignorance guide them to safety. Not I. I do not trust the answers in front of me. Inhale.

My mind has never trusted my heart. She tells me to cut our rope of distance— separate our separation with a knife carved of desperation. I tell her the rope is made of glass. Take the mint from my pillow and savor the taste. Close my eyes and finger the thread. To be scared of one’s own mind— a woman cries on the bus as it reaches her stop. I tell her I cannot trust her guidance because I cannot read it on the street signs. She holds my hand to keep it warm— confrontation is never easy, Dear.

February is at my door. I can see her shadow beneath the chipped paint. She calls to me with an outstretched hand. I will never be weightless. She tells me warmth is comfort. I trust her. And as every year before and every year to come— she will leave just as my hands defrost.

— ODH