I drew the sun on my skin in the hopes that it would melt my frozen insides, but the ink bled through and there's nothing warm about the moon. With ribs like the tundra and a chest cavity full of snow storms, I sit in the silver glow of my cold winter moon and pretend that I am some semblance of alright. Time passes like snow flurries and my ceiling is farther away than it should be as I drift through the insanity of my reality.
I am all the mess I've ever been.
Red-rimmed eyes don't last very long and no one is ever around in time to see winter bloom inside my skull. Snowflake eyes and blue-tinged lips are only so pretty until you reach for them. The touch is icy unforgivable, not something you want to hold on to.
And as I whisper melting glaciers into oblivion, I am understanding that there is nothing beautiful about the puddle juxtaposed by the flame. So I will stay achingly cold and untouchable blue.
Winter I will stay.