The wind is cold
and feels right on my
skin.

It calms my heart
and I rush in with endless
exhaustion.

Tell me to believe
and I will not lash out, whispering
no.

My arms don’t belong
to me. I don’t belong to
me.

It sits on my chest
lingers in my head with its
claws.

I welcome the pain—
the sharp edges of wind feel
right.

I feel wrong.