Red tinted glasses
in summer’s sun
will never pass me again.
Either way, I'm just a winter’s fever
that’s so ****** it wants to **** me.

I've beaten every thought in my brain
to a pulp, to a grain of
“I hate myself.”
and the yellow sun is hidden beneath these
lifeless trees.

My headache flickers like a fire,
like a nervous sweat at spring approaching,
at all my plans for March and for June
and for us.
Skin, hot to the touch, is sprinkled with snow
that may never melt.

What if I waited a little longer
and the ice broke when we kissed?
Nothing would've changed, I think,
nothing would've let me pick flowers in the rain.

The blood orange scarf
hiding my face
and suffocating me so I will never see
the pink of your cheeks.