My tears are dry
as a bone. I cried
many teardrops
that froze to my

face. They turned
to icicles and cut
as razor blades. I bled
out all the red myself

in bed. I turned
hard from the cold, as
the grass in my yard
under a blanket of

snow. I’ve dug
an impression none can
see. The sun doesn’t shine
on me. When you’re a rock

they look at you
as a mismatched sock. None
can tell I fought to grow
between the blades and bitter snow.