There is blood
between my shoulder blades,
bright steel and loud thorns
scattered like broken
sunlight on my dry spine. Quietly,
and in a very unassuming
moment, I have realized that white
is the color of tombs
the color of winter skin
the color of scars.
And it is the color of morning breath.
These storms leave us washed
in the world's old
and heavy kindness.
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