Grit: holly compton

Frost between my toes bites and I got ice in my veins.  Break and boil, water can be frozen or turn to steam but both burn the skin with such a scream.  Watching the sheep and hoping the fence.  No trespassers here but me.  When you go tipping lambs they land with a bleat.  I sewed each one a tiny pillow all embroidered with tiny bows but forgot to put in stuffing which calls little comfort to a falling head.  Took a hand to loom and made a story from the skin of you, the hunts never over when you got more prey.  I made a spear out of sticky situations but forgot not to fall upon the blade.  The only way to heal is to push it all the way through.  Lay down face to floor and cradle to grave, never kiss a rocking horse who knows your name.  The got splinters all puckered up and ready to press.  The saddles fallen sideways and I got no one else to blame.  Got all kinds of ground coming up quickly but the bottom always tastes the same.  Mud in your teeth and grit in your grin, a smile of failure when you can’t tell the difference between thick and thin.