They rise without warning,
sharp as winter breath,
threading through the hours
with hands that do not know mercy.

Memories slip beneath my skin,
burrow deep,
pressing against the places I pretend
are healed.

I sit with them,
because there is nowhere else to go,
because some storms are meant to be weathered,
not outrun.

They do not shout.
They whisper,
soft enough to seem harmless,
until I realize I am bleeding from a
thousand invisible cuts.

Stil,I listen.
Still,I endure.
Still,I breathe.