April Fools, With Fangs

April shows up
yellow as a banana peel left to rot in the sun,
a warning disguised as a joke,
a joke disguised as mercy.

Truth drags itself in after her,
dust‑coated,
half‑asleep,
muttering that honesty is overrated
and timing is everything.

The day is a trapdoor:
you step,
it laughs,
you fall,
it shrugs.

Somewhere a prank is born
already regretting itself,
already knowing
it will grow up to be
a hellraising word
that tastes like burnt metal
and childhood revenge.

Still
we play along,
because April is the only month
that tells the truth by lying
and lies by telling the truth.

And when the world slips,
again,
on its own yellow grin,
we laugh
not because it’s funny,
but because falling
is the only honest thing
left.

And still
in the middle of all this
yellow slapstick and charcoal prophecy
someone tells a joke so stupid
it becomes holy.

You laugh,
and for a moment
the world slips on its own peel
and remembers
how to fall
without breaking.

April arrives
wearing a banana‑peel grin,
slick, slippery,
promising nothing
and delivering everything sideways.

Truth waddles in behind her,
pants around its ankles,
swearing it meant to do that,
swearing the fall was part of the plan.

The day tastes like sugar burned black,
a joke told too close to the fire,
where laughter curls
like smoke from a hellraising word
you’re not supposed to say
but do anyway
because mischief is a kind of prayer.