Cut it open and stitch up the remains. Then repeat. Sometimes the words come pouring in in the way only a wound can reveal itself on the outside.
We endure cold winters and fingertips on our spine. We endure the way history repeats itself, people breaking our ribs to get inside, the warmth of the fire, the ashes flooding our mouth. Can you resist being hurled to the ground ? How much of us is going to get away ? We’re told about the dreams where we end up with wolves, but we’re still looking to pull the dead out of the water and tuck them in warm clothes again. We long at night , dream of the place where nothing is bruised and blackened. When we wake up, the scars are still there.
A hunter’s heart, lonely and quiet, always running , always looking back for ghosts. Did we forget someone ? Did we ruin our last resting place ? We’ve grown thicker skin, twisted our veins like they were made of paper. We took a thread and a needle and sew ourselves up with all the pieces we could find. Sometimes we aren’t put together right and become the monsters we fear.
There are no more nightmares at night. Now we barely sleep.