My hands are cold,
Numb, and they lack a pulse too,
It would seem;
As do my feet while I walk without feeling,
Anything I could ever hope to.
Ice flows delicately through my veins,
And I find it beautiful,
Nobody else does;
Being dead is apparently,
Not good for your health.
My skin is colorless,
Like a corpse,
Or a cloud,
Whichever works for the person who sees me and,
How the sleepless nights have added up,
My eyes are glassy,
Certainly not holding the spark that once flamed,
Within my heart and everything I saw.
The colors have faded.
My lips,
Cracked, bleeding, and dry,
Whisper a last word nobody hears.