Ode to Anne / Change of Seasons

Should I break the fourth wall? Should I call upon you who reads this and ask— what am I supposed to do when my lungs fill with acid and my heart cannot quieten? I have not written in days and I can feel it— I mean really feel it— inside of my throat begging to be gagged free. Anticipation claws at my eyelids. My angels have not spoken to me in weeks. I watch this woman each day— walking through endless halls carrying frames which may as well be strangers. I don’t think I know anything anymore. I’ve lost it all. Should I break the fourth wall? Should I call upon this woman, a character in my mind? She is real, you know. She peers out the window. All the wrong places. I can feel springtime upon the soles of my feet. I always loved spring. There is a tree on my bus’s route decorated with a million birdhouses. [I like to think the birds know one another] Can I be frank? I miss February. She gave me an excuse to feel miserable. You’ve survived February, Dear. The spinney will bloom adjacent to sidewalks and your skin will no longer shed each night as ice upon your lips. You are so close to warmth. When I find myself above the toilet tonight with prayers spilling from my throat I will remember these words. Until then.

— ODH