Mich Lundgren

The Void

There is a point, where spring is scratching at the door, that the cold of winter no longer just hurts my tender, not-meant-for-Minnesota flesh. Instead it becomes a vaccuum within me, an ache so deep that I can barely move.

There have been times in my life that I’ve craved fruit, or meat, something my body is telling me it needs desperately, and I’ve cried for the urgency of the need for specific sustenance. This is how I feel at the edge of winter, my dried-out skin feels so confining, I feel like that one chick from Dr. Who – moisturize me. But it’s not my skin, at all – it’s my soulbits. I want the freedom to step into the night and hear bugs. I need to drive with the windows down, sink into a river, I need to breathe air that doesn’t instantly initiate postnasal drip.

Please come to here, spring. Before I crack.

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