Spring feels like dying this time.
I usually feel like withering,
but because of the allergies.
People used to be able to laugh
at my sneezes; now they feel like
quick triggers. How do I know which
it is? My phone says it’s a Friday.
The calendar says it’s April.
I know it’s both, but it feels like neither

because spring feels like dying this time.
When I go outside I can relax for a little
in the warmth, but I know it’s a false feeling—
that nature is living. No one I know is really
living, but the mosquitos don’t care.
I go from bed to table to bed again,
wearing the same clothes; it feels maybe
like being mummified. I know I’m in a
tomb, with the same walls haunting me,

and spring feels like dying this time.
Not even the loose sunlight pooling
in from the window can draw me out
from my blanket-cave where the screen
light burns fleeting images into my retinas.
I let myself lie there until the hours fade,
like everything’s just one big dream,
another reality where my body is nothing
but goo. It helps me to forget the truth,

that spring feels like dying this time.