Nothing makes me cry in February more than worms.

For some reason this time of year leaves them especially suicidal. Their tendencies leave me in tears in the rain wanting to save them all but not having the stomach nor the energy to pick them up and set them safely on lawns, dirt patches or in gutters.
Late rainy, winter nights are also when I try to quit smoking
Or
quit that person in my life,
suppressing all urges, and giving into others instead,
psychotic due to lack of nicotinesexlovetime.
I overempathize with the slimycompostinginvertebrates
and end up crying in the rain, tearsrunningdown my
face
as invisible as worm movement.
Me looking down at them.
Them inching towards fresh dirt.
I sob in my self-induced empathy
thinking this lowly life form represents parts of me.
Impossibly long (stretchingthemselvesfartherthantheyshould)
and slimy,
fat
and squishy,
purple and brown they slide across bike paths, sidewalks, and roads.
Their sloth,
their slowness is something I compare to my life.
trapped in my own thick world ruled by the urge to only do something when I absolutely have
to
like the worm, when it rains.
Pay my bills. Read. Look for a real job.
While it is sunny and warm I bask in the moment neither looking to the green grass on the other
side of my life’s lawn, nor learning from the past burn of the sun.
I usually linger too long in the light and fuck myself
in the process shrivelling up,
only to barely recover when another week’s flood of darkgreyrain starts
Then the breaking point comes.
The rain.
The necessity.
The self-loathing.
And I slowly start to work my way out of this rut and move on, to another one,
moist
and
alive
again.
I try to break my wormy cycle, and instead I am saturated by others’:
Addictionapathywhat-the-fuck-am-I-going-to-do-nowness’
I well up when I see worms in February
Smushed or cut in half by arrogant, unswerving bike tires, careless feet
almost there, across the street,
sidewalk, promenade.
Getting to the other side where the past is not remembered in the joy and jubilation of making it
across alive, unbroken, with nothing to do but eat fresh dirt.

Maybe Miranda Post should've written this tagline, or whatever.