I write when the bleeding fragmented night
drips shards onto a bright new day.
When my chest feels tight and the fingers of time tug on my wrists, my neck, my hair,
drowning me in a life all too quiet.
When the quiet blooming dusk slices me open,
my lungs breathing with the sunset.
When my hands are shaky,
the world tilts and spins,
and my heart,
oh my heart,
they save me.