august

I pity the fools that fall in love with August.

They say fresh start is like clean laundry: 

twanging detergent, sharp and warm with perfect hems waiting to become creases and everything more beautiful than it really is.

But new starts are like new injuries, waiting to heal.

Plaster casts on swollen ankles, keeping the shattered pieces together but refusing to ease the pain.

They'll give you painkillers and brush ibuprofen into your hairline

but you will never love your injuries.

This is morbid.

This isn't beautiful.

I'm not trying to insult or amuse you.

I just have to wake up early to another day in August

and I hate August

because the sun is warmer than July

and only a little cooler than hell

and my injuries are on the edge of my toes

which are waiting to break.

I'm just waiting to break

so the healing can start.