i let the wrong parts of the year save me. 

what i mean is i can’t remember the last time anything arrived on time, or stayed in the shape it promised. spring sunlight touches my cheek for half a breath and i’m ready to build a cathedral around the feeling. summer burns me alive all day and then one evening breeze folds over me & i forgive the entire season for every wound like i don’t know that it’ll burn me again tomorrow. everything looks like a sign when you’re hungry enough. 

i keep finding holiness in the wrong places. i’ve been living off the universe’s mistakes for years & every time i tell myself to stop making altars out of coincidences. the world pretends not to notice but then it leaves these tiny shimmering openings everywhere. maybe i’m just supposed to peer through and say

oh.

oh, i was never alone.

oh, the world is bigger than what i can stand. 

someone asked me once if it hurts less to bleed in the heat or the cold, and i almost laughed because i’ve been carrying seasons inside me like organs. some days i’m frostbitten at the edges, some days i’m scorching from the inside out. most days i’m both, burning and freezing in the same breath, and i can’t decide which kind of ache feels more like home. but i don’t think the question is about pain.