Keep me warm.
Who has seen me with the dirt scrubbed
from under my skin
and my eyes more tired than a drawn out lullaby,
held the dryness of my hands in winter,
and let snowflakes fall on my eyelashes?

I want everyone who’s ever met me to hold a block of ice in their hands until it melts, solid turns to liquid and their palms are red and raw- the red and raw of the cold or of scrubbed skin.

Keep me warm.
I can’t focus in the wind that burns my eyes
and my state of mind.

I am numb. All of those I’ve traded hearts with know I am numb,
know I can’t feel the brisk breeze on my toes anymore,
know that my brain dies whenever my breath shows.
But I want my world to know,
even those who are still glistening in summer’s sun.

Who will hold my bare hand with a gloved one
even though my skin is rough and
my fingers are tinted purple;
then brush snow off my skin?

Keep me warm.

I want someone to make me feel heat for the first time, flowing through my blood and to my head; to let me relax to a state of surreality.

Then, I’ll shatter like ice does, and melt before anyone can pick up the pieces,
asking, “Who will keep me warm?” when I should’ve just bought a ******* coat.