Spring

I once heard the battering of drums, the rhythm of a dozen battered, broken, aimless versions of myself stomping along. Uniform blackness. Had taken those like me to my bed, hard, and harder, cruel and cruller. Far too bright, too hot, too blinding in their own sickness that it spun me into a web of far-too-loud bleating, beatings.

But I hear strings now. They spur flowers from the darkest parts of me, like splintering flesh around broken bone. I feel nothing but safe. Constantly cool for a head too hot as my own, in the light of her moon.