#2022.4.9

[heishiro-koume]

[fleuronterrobang]

On April days I feel myself brim.

"You drink too much coffee," my mother tells me

The skin under my eyes a paperweight

or I fear I'd rip away

And it only takes a single hitch,

like detergent to the water

At once, the reservoir overflows,

cold, bitter, dark-roasted words,

and I cannot stop as they stain the paper–

It is the cruelest month, after all.

-

"Just a bit more," I tell her.