The Year the Gods Spoke in Fire

In the beginning,

Winter stood over me,

a god with iron breath,

cold as fuck,

asking whether I would kneel

or survive.

January split my ribs open

and called it birth.

Blood remembered motion.

The year accepted me.

February came robed in red,

a god who does not bargain.

It taught me

who to fucking love

by refusing to leave.

Devotion, it said,

is not softness.

It is staying.

March arrived drunk on thaw,

a liar god

cracking ice with laughter.

It promised release

and delivered fracture.

I broke.

The earth approved.

Nothing living

stays whole.

April,

a green god

with dirt in her mouth,

asked what the fuck blooms

after survival.

She answered herself

with mouths of color,

petals

reckless as prayer.

May crowned the body.

A sun god,

bare-handed,

casting light

in full fucking color,

turning skin into hymn,

desire into sacrament.

June lingered

like a lover

who learns your true name

and keeps saying it.

The light refused to leave.

I let it stay.

Some gods are meant

to be believed.

July arrived loud.

A god crowned in heat,

certain of itself,

taking the sky

personally.

It taught me this:

some joy burns,

some power is reckless,

and sometimes survival

is standing in the blaze

and not stepping back.

Then came Heat.

August,

a tyrant god

heavy on the chest.

Beauty with weight.

Fire without mercy.

I whispered fuck

and the god listened.

Even gods bruise

what they love.

September returned the breath.

A gentler deity,

cool hands,

open palms.

Fuck summer, I said.

The god smiled.

Tenderness was restored

to the altar.

October spoke from shadow.

A bone god,

leaf-crowned,

knowing

what the fuck

the dark knows.

It stripped the world carefully,

teaching

that undressing

is a kind of truth.

November was gravity.

A god of falling,

not breaking,

falling.

Everything released itself

back to the ground

that remembers us.

December arrived last,

quiet as snow,

merciful as sleep.

A god who does not demand.

Only gathers.

A quiet fucking mercy,

placed like a hand

over the heart

of the year.

The gods closed their circle.

The seasons loosened

their grip.

I was not ended.

I was held.

And the world,

having taken me apart,

let me remain.