It’s that awkward time when it’s no longer winter and summer only comes to visit for a few hours.
When the flowers bloomed but they died in the frost of springs bite.
The bite that leaves the scars winter’s white politely covered.
The scars we don’t talk about - even though they tend to glow in the light that breaks its way through the generic white blinds in your room. - casting lines of light and shadow across our pale winter skin.
I’m afraid to fall in between the lines. To be in the dark and see the light. To be the light and know the dark.
(unresolved)
the scar tissue tightens in my back and I fall back asleep.
