In Spring’s Bed
Spring’s fingers traced the dark welts on my chest, which Winter had left only days before. Winter had been bitter that year, but then again she’s always like that. She never changes. Even when she’s warm, you can feel her clawing into you, getting under your skin. Her nails are sharp, and they don’t tickle the way Summer’s do. If you let her, Winter will eat your heart, taking it apart with her long nails and devouring it in little bits. That year I feared it was more than even Spring could fix. As I lay under her, watching her put the needle in her pretty little mouth, her smile...
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