themorningtrain

your thoughts are jackals, yet their twilight howls sound like cries in your head; you have been finding yourself & not- while trying not to sound so sad. so, Dear Heart, you can write. yet, you stopped wearing your words on your wrist & all that hair you chopped off this day a year ago, refuses to grow back. you turn, try to decode your encyclopedia of powerful spines, tearing at the pages you wrote them upon. angry, You were so angry. & now? nothing but an untamed, wild thing you leave collared & quiet in a cage.