They say April is a month of rebirth, a month of healing.
What a lie. April is a *****—a wolf in sheep’s clothing—giving you just enough hope that you can stop and smell the roses, only for it to unzip its outer skin, forcing a thorn to strike you in the eye.
They say death comes in threes, but they don’t tell you that April’s showers of misfortune come tenfold, never ceasing, leaving you gasping for air.
Eventually, the storm will stop, as it always does, and I’ll be there in fields of wildflowers, soaking up the sun. After all, I’m good—just a little tired.
