‧̍̊˙· 𓆝.° ｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ·˙‧̍̊

pollen-laden sickness sprawling and stretching to align with each nerve in my body.
every winter, death comes rattling through the roof tiles –
begging for a chance to carve away the frozen ground and make room for my rest.
even through the warmth of the day, these scars still lay numb against my touch.
maybe those scars, the same ones he watches over and touches so gently,
are surgical incisions, end-goal operation for the removal of self worth.

[I tried to write something nice about summer – but I don’t know if I have ever wrote a nice thing. I’ve always been under the impression that you experience the good and write about the bad.]