DEAR APRIL

You were a month of deception,
picking at old scabs to birth new blood.

You were both the steaming cup of tea
and the burnt tongue aftermath.

You were hard.

But you made me soft,
the same way a child learns to read:

Sound out the words.
Form them with your lips.

Speak.

I do not speak in muted apologies now.
You taught me how to scream.

I will proclaim you for the rest of my life,
singing out–

Hallelujah, it is done.
I am allowed to love at full volume.

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