true north.There were days counted by the number of moons that waxed and waned in her mouth, days carved out of the fluted chest of some beached whale, bones whistling in the winter wind. There were days punctuated by how many suicide notes were swallowed down with a shot of whiskey, days gathered together from the charcoal of a thousand wasted yesterdays, I built all these bridges and became a wickerman fit for burning.true north. by comatose-comet
I have stared giants in the eye, have sunk through bleached reefs where sharks bleed, have split my sides open to let out some of the sadness welling in my chest. I count days with her mouth as the sundial, I rotate like the shadows of great pines, I am sick of writing about depression. I want to write about her instead.
Her, with teeth plucked from the jaws of fierce bears, eyes that have stared at the sun for too long, fingers worn down to the bone from feeling too much, fighting too much, healing too little. Her, that is healing now, re-stitching her seams and rediscovering th