Pixels

With the thawing ground comes a vicious itch. A restless unease crawls in your spine. All your issues, so carefully concealed in snow, so safely conserved and tucked away, begin to resurface and decay. They release their noxious fumes into the Sunday breeze and paint their stories in your unguarded mind. In silence, they speak louder; in stillness, they move across the furniture and you cannot escape.

But you do not want to.

Because a weight in your gut, a bitter taste on your lips, they are something, they are anything. Because the wraiths that lie in your bed and keep you from sleep, they whispers threats you already know and have heard a hundred times before.

You scratch the itch until you bleed.
There is just enough comfort in recognition
to let you let yourself bleed dry.