winter bones

there is winter

in my bones; leftovers

nibbled it’s way

through April’s chill.

they sting – sharp and

shrill; needles striking

themselves into me.

here, an engraved slot

punctured with deceit,

decorated with sloppy frills.

a space; for cold to wear

myself raw and

open.

 

Advertisements

1 Comment

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s