Winter is beginning and ending

I’ve been so closed off. And I know it. I’ve been afraid to rip myself open, to write on bone. Maybe not so much afraid as tired. I’ve been tired and missing a spark. Perhaps this has been my winter. In a climate that has few seasons, my body still creates them. Trees grow around wire fences, but you never see how it begins or how it ends. In the beginning nothing is touching. In the end, the wire is gone. Inside the tree a frequency has begun. We wrap ourselves around experience and pain, grow through it, swallow it like shrapnel. Can you imagine if you ripped each one of us open? How many barbs you’d see? All these unorganic chunks that never started as part of us, but muscle and heart embraced without our consent, took them in like a homeless shelter. Fed, bathed, clothed. They’re here, now, for good because cutting them out means removing chunks of yourself.
But maybe I’m feeling more spring-like. Maybe something new is growing. It’s always sunny here. The rain knows to pour only at night and this body, seeded, feels like shaking off some of that dirt. The latest wire is almost a new limb

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