Hey there, spring.
Don't think that I haven't noticed you there, rooting around under my skin like a raccoon in a trash heap. I've noticed you in the times when I have to take off my coat walking home, the times when I realize I probably don't need two sweaters over my dress, the times where I wouldn't be able to help but whistle cheerfully if I knew how to whistle. All of the bulbs are making flowers right now, the robins are all hopping around excitedly eating my friends the earthworms, but I am mostly ignoring all of it. I'm not ready for you quite yet, spring.
But I'm getting there. I had planned, after all, to spend this half of the winter breaking out of some of my more destructive patterns. And while this isn't perhaps the method I would have chosen, I am finally close to hollowed out and nearly prepared to spend the spring charming everyone with my frantic talk of the noble rhinoceros and the adorable pangolin. (You don't even know how many documentaries I am capable of watching and regurgitating, but: it is a lot.) We're going to have dance parties for months, spring, drink bottles of champagne, collect collective nouns, stay up much too late, and kiss in dark corners. It's all in my plans. Only right now my fingernails are all shredded and their beds torn apart and bleeding, and I haven't smiled at a cute stranger in weeks.
So maybe I need a little bit more time, spring. Some of those bulbs that are making flowers now need a hard freeze in order to bloom, a period of dormancy in order to motivate root growth and subsequent blooming. Maybe I do too.
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