in the midst of your ruin.
There is a dangerous comfort
in places where nothing grows.
I am a flower in the dead of winter.
Not alive but unwilling to bloom.
to sleep beneath the frost
than to risk the storm of spring.
to bleed into new colours-
her cold hands are chains
„Stay, you are safe here.”
And I almost believe her.
Her cries bring me comfort
and shields me from new beginnings.
and there is a fever beneath my ribs,
a pulse that tastes like sunrise,
in the spaces between old bones.
Yet flowing, always flowing
toward mouths that thirst
for what I have never tasted.
Spring hears my silent prayer
„There is no sin in wanting more”.
I realise the grave, my cage-
It was I that denied myself life.
And so under the blue aura of the moon
I claw my way out of the grave-
toward the echo of Spring,
Toward a life of bloom and new.
Winter asks why I would leave
the grave that kept me warm.
I am a sinner of quiet desires.
I was told to only dream of.
To experience something other
than the comfort of my decay.
I must first shed the skin
I forged from stained glass and frostbite.
to go back to the chains I called home.
But in Springs warm embrace,
„Hibernation kept you alive
But it did not let you live.”
So I make a quiet agreement
on the coffin of who I was,
I will let the ice unlearn my name,
I will stand in the unbearable light
of a life that does not hurt me.
And when I finally step out
I draw the breath of life,
Lungs stinging with the ghost of winters kiss.
To press my thawing petals
against the warmth of passing souls.
Let me be undone by presence,
