The cold end of a knife
is a hail storm—
a biting reminder
of why one cut
runs deeper than disaster.
How loud,
each thundering heartbeat!
How silent,
the fall of a thousand fears.
When your body
is inside the eye of a storm
long enough
for each howl to cut through
everything, then
you’ll know how to breathe
out without bleeding.
When you’re free
of all the things you have seen,
come outside—
the wind
is a dance of good things.
Soft, unsharpened things.
Things that do not ask
to be survived.
May 18, 2025
May 18, 2025 at 12:09 AM UTC
The cold end of a knife
is a hail storm—
a biting reminder
of why one cut
runs deeper than disaster.
How loud,
each thundering heartbeat!
How silent,
the fall of a thousand fears.
When your body
is inside the eye of a storm
long enough
for each howl to cut through
everything, then
you’ll know how to breathe
out without bleeding.
When you’re free
of all the things you have seen,
come outside—
the wind
is a dance of good things.
Soft, unsharpened things.
Things that do not ask
to be survived.
