November, December, January.
Oh how I hate thee
Three months etched on my mind,
three months of picking at healing wounds,
making them bleed once more.

November,
The month of creeping insanity,
the month of hate,
of bitterness
of seeing your face and wanting to kick it in.

December,
The month of old sorrow,
the month I greive
for a blossoming love that was pruned by the reaper,
never forgetting your face,
Still wanting to trade places.

January,
Bitterness, pain, hurt, anger reside here,
The loss of the woman who was more of a mother then my real one,
The anger at the way she was taken from me,
99 years old, but still stolen away in violence,
unfair, unjust.

Just me on my own now,
hiding behind my personal shadows,
hiding from the world,
not out of fear,
just waiting for the right moment to pay what's due.