Claimed since the beginning of it all, the last week of April was always her week.

Nonetheless, as time went on, it turned out to be a groundhog day of sorts—forgotten and misconstrued in the everyday fumbles of clumsy society. She could never understand why she is singled out—forced to live a life that was always missing something.

She looked at the people around her. All of them revolved around some sort of drive she could never really fully understand; in other words, this best friend of theirs was uninviting and cold when she turned her face to the halo of light.

Again, and again, and again, this seasonal cycle took its toll on her; in fact, it is like a sore-thumb sticking farther out than the other reminders of her unfortunateness.

In the series of nothings, this nothing resembled something, unlike the nothing she had never seen before. It carried itself with a different air—like it was trying to drape itself in some lavish fur coat to pull her into the black hole of its facade.

And, once tumbling down, she would end up in no sort of Wonder Land. As a sick cosmic joke, she would find herself blending back into her current reality. Nobody cared enough to help her escape through each revolution around the sun—this final week to mark her calendar as another year in the melting pot.

This unlucky and unyielding week is just another excuse—another opportunity presented—for further reiteration of her worth from those around her. Birthdays are ridiculous; anyways, she chooses to focus on the other days of the year. But, in further consideration, as she sat legs crossed in abstain questioning, those aren’t any better. 

She finds herself instead unraveling in her mind as her heart is entangled in this web of consecutive turmoil and dissatisfaction of her current position in life. To no avail, the last week of April comes, and she feels, in no way, any bit better than that of the promise of an impending escape.

Her dreams are perpetual as well, drawing her farther away from her family and her reality. All it has become is just one waking nightmare—one in which the occasionality of a real one are more like wondrous and whimsical daydreams.

She longs for a May that will never come. No flowers flourished under her heavy hand as she picked up a pencil borrowed from March. 

Dear April, she writes in agitated anguish, bring me a gift this year. All she wanted was closure, but April, dear, you were never meant to bring flowers.