The cold end of a knife

is a hail storm—

a biting reminder

of why one cut

runs deeper than disaster.

How loud

each thundering heartbeat!

How silent

the fall of a thousand fears.

When your body

is inside the eye of a storm

long enough

for each howl to cut through

everything, then

you’ll know how to breathe

out without bleeding.

When you're free

of all the things you have seen,

come outside—

the wind

is a dance of good things.

Soft, unsharpened things.

Things that do not ask

to be survived.