Pulse — bruised are my longings.
I wake in the grey. Try to forget April, the mud and the sparkle. My dreams tell me stories I sometimes don’t want to hear. When morning comes I should be able to blink this away, but my lashes stick.
Nothing was broken.
It may have turned blue. It may have disappeared. But there is nothing to bandage, nothing to salve and suture. Just my skin. And my lips. And my heart.
There is good in the dawn.
But there is also always a small, dark hell.