It’s cold here,
in every sense of the word.
Visible breaths and invisible threats.
I want to go home.
This hasn’t been home for years,
yet here I am in tears,
trying to remember moments
before everything fell apart.
Forgetting is an art,
and I’ve done it well.
But I can’t erase the hell
this place carried me through.
And then I remember,
home isn’t much better,
because I follow me there.
Maybe the temperature and memories
aren’t so cold.
It’s just my heart,
and my poor, glacial soul.

~kb