recovery

I have been sick, and crippled for six days now. today is the first day where perhaps I can feel my throat has not become a grave, and my house slowly grows a door—beautiful fucking sunlight. there were fever words, and tremble songs. I am always so embarrassed for anything I write, that it carves a journal where I want a story, something to give. I know this will never leave me, and it is a toll I am always wrestling to keep. still, I write everything, horrific night wounds, glory of the days when we are not alone. I still only do this for those who need to scour the mark—the end of seasons, and steam engine, and skull tangles.

or, my sister—my venom bloats me, to carry her through. my light surges to keep to hers. my hope breathes a sky for her smile, to see all from above. we are both made from the same broken angle. I know her wrath to hang upon, the world to give her that much sadness. I visibly am undone at such—

your happiness was always going to be worth these lungs filled with hurting truth, taking away twenty breaths of this night, its kind strike.