The Year viewed backwards

The year will change its number like a witness changing clothes.
Nothing about the crime will be different.

The calendar flips,
a mere rehearsal of hope before returning to the mundane,
just like newly bought planners,
just like your promise to never text them back,
to never accept an apology from yourself in third person.

You are simply restocking your whimsical hope of
making survival meaningful
with more no-sugar energy bars
and a new “TBR” list overflowing with financial independence tutorials.

You will scream the countdown to 12 like Cinderella forced
to a party she never wanted to attend, swollen feet from dancing with
sweaty strangers you never want to meet again.

Beneath all the firecrackers,
your burnt desires from the past decade will haunt you,
their phosphorus smell lingering around.

You will return home at 3 a.m.
with another set of
three hundred odd days smeared away in memory,
setting the alarm at 6 to make the day count.

And when the party glitter washes off after a couple of days,
when the morning light does not sigh like a newborn,
when all the facade falls out of boredom,
you will sit on your kitchen counter, wondering when exactly
you learned
not to take the mask off.