December is the month of poets 

We bloom with brisk icicles and wet dew in our throats 

We emerge in trembling black caves and we love the raw sweetness of the dark 

We cling to the promise of the sun, but we know that meaningless light won’t ever make a difference 

And Winter stays in our air-tight souls and I swear we don’t even give its frozen breath room to escape 

We sleep during the parched apricot mornings and wake up to a fragment of the pearl moon 

December is the month of poets 

We pull out our souls and put them on paper and say it is a beautiful-blessed thing 

When really,  it is just a sorrowful paper with tragic, rotten blood on it 

And we wonder if putting ourselves into words makes us stronger or weaker- because doesn’t it now deem everything that has ever happened to finally become real?

Did we not just evoke our once disregarded pain to bloom like a child in the soaked womb? 

Did we not just take a crowbar and pry all the tenderness out from our gut, pulling it out in sharp broken pieces, bathing in the red warmth on our hands? 

Nevertheless, the flowers will frost, and our colors will drain pathetically from our faces 

Our jaws will tighten and the aura of the people who we once swore were holy, remains like a pleasant fragile ghost 

And we carve December’s name into our skin, finding no luck in searching for its warmth 

December is the month of poets

I’m still not sure if I am one.