Closer to spring

Darkness falls quickly now,

the feeble sky overpowered by the black pull of eternity.

Snow turns to rain, rain turns to mud,

and every month, I bleed and I cry.

It's almost Christmas, but

why must the days before be so dark?
Night hanging over light like an endless shadow.

I think of sunlit rooms, summertime, 

warm air and windblown flowers,

and then look outside and see the thin layer of snow

being pummeled away by a downpour 

falling from a sky the color of charcoal.

(I just pretend none of it exists.)

I go to school and I worry about my clothes, my hair,

and I still see you in the hall sometimes,

blue eyes, freckles, flawless,

but I haven't been thinking about you as much as I once did.

So that's an improvement,

I guess.

I pray for the weekend, and when it comes

I sleep until eleven-thirty

with only the tiniest sliver of daylight in my grasp

before everything turns dark once again.

I'm beginning to think life is an endless cycle--

vicious, relentless, ever-present--

and that we pull time to ourselves as it passes,

like a long stretch of shiny ribbon,

growing shorter with each day.

Last year I was almost thirteen,

and now I'm almost fourteen, look at that.

Every night, I'll whisper to myself that I'm lucky to be alive, even

though the air is cold, even though the days are dark.

With each second, we may grow closer to winter,

but darling,

we also grow closer to spring.