how i look yapping about something im hyperfixated on

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i keep thinking seasons are going to cure me. if not June, then July.
i'll try again in August.
never as good as it's supposed to be.
i don't change with the seasons like i expected to. i thought i was in tune with the rhythms of trees, that i would shed and break and grow again with nothing but time.
i thought summer would save me
but summer is never as good as it was.

april is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.

if you’re so funny, why are you on your own tonight?