The month that whispered promises
and delivered storms instead,
that kept my hands raw from holding on
to things that weren’t mine to keep.
I am glad
for the mornings I spent
watching the sky bleed orange and pink
while the world yelled at me through screens
and strangers’ voices in cars
and the echo of a friend who didn’t call back.
I am glad
for the nights that tasted like whiskey
and regret and the smoke of half-forgotten arguments,
for learning that love sometimes lives
in the patience you have for yourself
when no one else has it.
I am glad
for the rage I let burn,
for the tears that made me soft again,
for every small rebellion
that reminded me I am still alive, still wanting, still alive.
I am glad March is over,
because April waits like an open palm,
and I am ready to fill it
with our laughter,
our madness,
our wild, impossible tenderness.