Fibbing, Fickle & Fraudulent February

February is a dangerous month.

It reminds me of that terrible
drunk at the bar. The one who
drinks until his kidneys fail while
simultaneously professing how
much he loves you and how much
you mean to him one minute,
then turning on you to take a
swing at your face with a pint
glass the next minute.

February is that former boxing

champion, the one that showed
so much heart in the ring, who you
rooted for without even knowing
that much about boxing, but there was
just something about him that made
you think that, “Yeah, he deserves
his shot at the title.”
Only to discover he murdered his
pregnant wife over drugs and money
a month after winning his belt.

February has a muscular body,

spent a lot of time at the gym,
can’t wear tee-shirts that fit or always
have their arms exposed to exhibit their
mastery over their muscle. Their dedication
to sculpting themselves is admirable, it’s
too bad they’re as intelligent as a bag of
wet grass and have the moral compass of
a Bonobo monkey.

February is the double, the two faces,

the frown behind the smile, the tears of
a laugh and the hug to stab you in the back.
A handshake with fingers crossed on the deal
of a lifetime. February is dangerous and
should be looked at with wide, open eyes.
You never know what it’ll do next.
It might make it so you can't figure out
an appropriate ending to this poem
that seemingly started out so well,
but then sort of meandered into the well
of my own February bitterness.
Damn you February!
Got me again!