The Napping House Fucked Me Up- Emily Shank

I’ve cut myself

On the shards of unfinished stories

As I try desperately

To keep them from falling into the abyss

They slip through my fingers

And they are chased

By rivulets of crimson

The sting is like winter air

A biting reminder that

The world consumes warmth from life

In the frozen morning

My heart demands

Hermitage with those whose presence

Means warmth, sanctuary, and peace

But that is a desire forever denied

It is a wish better suited

For the colorful pages

Of a children’s book