January

January was never the beginning; it was always the end. January collapsed innocence; it exposed secrets. January did not sink like a stone; it did not float like a flower. January thundered in storm-clad and naked-bare; it thought it ran like clouds despite its rainless catastrophe. January was a liar; it promised resolutions and well-held wishes. January, instead, was boring; it lacked drama and interest and intrigue. January exhausted me; it killed me. January was wrought with misinterpretation and falsified vulnerability; it pulled up memories of forgotten winter. January ran away in its cowardice; it chased the sun from the sky and ruined my well cut lawn; it ravaged the streets and shook the gangs from the alleys. January was the reason I had to take down my Christmas lights; it turned our hearts cold and said monotonously, “Happy New Year.”