February.
You’re a question mark,
A pause for reflection,
an unknowing of what’s next.
I feel that you’re a lesson sent to me, but
I don’t have to context yet.
I haven’t grown into the person that understands
the what or the why.
You’re a fig tree, February, and
I’m sitting at your base,
staring up at your branches, and
the more I search, the more fruit I see.
But slowly, slowly, the figs drop around me, and
February,
I don’t know which fruit to choose.
You’re been a broken promise, February.
A thousand possibilities and zero chances taken.
You’ve been the line of ambiguity.
An action waiting in the balance between now and what’s next.
You’ve shown me a whole universe outside my Bell Jar, but
kept me on a leash.
And I’m trying to keep singing inside my cage, but
I’m scared about the next steps, and
I wish you would show me the way.
Guide me to what’s next, instead of whispering
that something is coming, and
I’ll find out soon,
without any clear instructions.
But honestly,
February,
even if you gave me the manual,
I don’t think I’d read it.
February.
You feel like a story that didn’t get to be told.
I want to find you, and
yell at you, and
demand to know why you’ve taken things away.
Why life has to be like this.
What you’re trying to tell me.
I don’t know if I’m strong enough for another month like you,
February.
I don’t think my soul can take the unease.
My heart wants a place to rest, but
every time I think I’ve found solid ground,
February,
you’ve been an earthquake.
I know I’ve been saying it for months, but
I promise I’m ready now.
I’m ready to know what’s next.
I’m ready to take what you’ve been trying to tell me.
I’m ready to become the person who can understand.
I know I can’t stay here forever, February,
in this in between place.
I know I can’t keep starving myself for lack of picking a fig.
I know I might not choose the best one,
the one with the fewest blemishes,
the one with the sweetest flesh, but
I’m ready to try one.
I know now that even if I choose to take a bite,
I don’t have to hold onto it forever,
And if it’s rotten inside,
I won’t be too scared to try again.
I promise, February.