A
season in this place
feels
like knives rubbing
their
blades against me.
Nice
at first,
the
coolness,
the
strangeness a thrilling dance.
But
then, as the days
and
the pressure mounts,
pushing
the blades ever deeper,
blood
beginning to run,
wisps
of burgundy weeds
trailing
down to the floor.
Puddles
grow like flowers
while
my head spins,
the
room grows then shrinks,
the
floor gapes at me
expecting
a dramatic crash,
but
I hug myself together,
brushing
pollen off my hair.