After December's bustlingn colour,
Each day a cheery market stall,
Excitement in every interaction,
I stumble accidentally into January.

Wind scrapes its fingernails down my face
As I negotiate around the craters
Of unspoken battles,
Avoiding the uncertain shadows
Of shrapnel-slashed friendships;
Dishonourably snub the gaze
Of unrepaired anniversaries,
Ashamed that my own appears intact.

I welcome February's fresh dagger.