April Showers
In the spring, we wait on overblown grass, trading false promises of a golden summer. I cry at the sight of swathes of daffodils, parading their freedom in joyful orbits of propagation. I cry over exams because my heart’s poison is failure. Cyanide can’t come close. Checking a pen’s ink levels is a mere attachment of an IV. Drip, drip. My words are here to survive.
In the spring, we waltz. March left a pithy bite. April awakens the palate. And the people, they crowd and jive and roleplay a ‘heatwave’, purchasing barbecues and linen trousers in a feverish sleepwalk, relishing time like an ice cube on the tongue. Said ice cube melts, gives way, perils of warmth and love and sunlight, shifting states of matter. A state of matter. Me.
In spring, time never lasts. Only blooms.
Olivia Burgess is an introverted 16 year old from Surrey. This is her first publication.