Februa has swallowed my colorless heart. I am immersed in this opaque and unfeeling month, this length of iridescent days stretching on for eternity. It’s depressing me with bricks and rain, with cinder blocks and lightening bolts. I lock my bedroom door, trying to ignore and escape the gnawing hunger in my gut. I hunger for life, love, nourishment, human contact; it’s been months since I’ve touched another living soul. With the lights out and the heat off, I lay on my bed, half naked, half hoping for the dead to come and save me from this Februan spell I’m under. I hold my demons close to keep me warm, they keep reminding me of how far down I’ve gone, how much further there is still to fall. I cry out for the guardian angel of Mars, of spring, of sunshine to come and lift me up to the flowering light. I want him to strip the lotus petals of rain off the golden orb of the sun and expose the world to the beauty it ignores. I want him to hold me in his arms and whisper in my ears and look into my eyes and see blue hope in the stead of slate indifference. I want him unlock the doors I’ve kept hidden; I want him to release me from my own solitary confinement and show the world what it has so long ignored.
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