Some things burn cold.
Dry ice, steaming, almost smoking.
So cold it burns, sticks to your skin, and just keeps burning,
killing what it touches, scorching and searing,
driving nerves past the point of pain to numbness.
There’s dry ice in his eyes.
The scathing words that fall from his tongue
give off toxic vapour.
The set of his jaw,
the grimness of his mouth,
the tension in his body so like the posture of one steeled against winter weather.
But he is the cold front.
His hatred the wind that freezes tears on eyelashes.
His withdrawal ******* warmth like sub-zero temperatures that chill to the bone.
There is nothing to do but hide.
Insulate. Find warmth wherever it resides.
Run, stomp frozen feet, cling to whomever is near.
Stay out of the places where the frigid draft creeps in.
Seal the gaps around doorways and windows.
Shut out the mind-numbing cold, draw up the blankets,
turn towards whatever fire there is.
And do not go back out there.
Once-frozen flesh remembers the cold.
The pain is made new, faster than before,
no less debilitating.
I will not look in those eyes.
I will not let those words freeze and shatter my heart.
I will not mourn the smile that once rested on those lips.
I will not feel that cold again.
Until I catch a glimpse of myself in a moment of rage,
a bluish pallor on my features,
frost on my lips and in my eyes,
and freeze in a panic.
But I refuse to inherit that legacy.