First to arrive at the funeral of warmth,
Last to leave the echo of breath.
What is misery without a mirror?
What is a laugh when lungs collapse?

It’s white outside,
but red claws bloom beneath the snow.
My nose burns with the frostbite’s kiss —
a fire disguised as silence.

I’ll crawl through winter’s teeth
even if the season swallows me whole.
I could meet the end more quickly
if I let go of the brakes.

I carve angels in the snow —
arms spread like surrender —
until I feel holy,
or at least no longer haunted.
If it kills me, I’ll call it trying.
If it kills me…

Smiles are coffins
where secrets rot sweet.
No one lies if no one speaks —
a silence sharp enough to bleed.
The girl in the mirror wears my skin,
but her pulse is paper-thin,
her eyes a grave of me.

I’ll make it through the winter
if the cold doesn’t get curious.
I could fall faster
if I weren’t always catching my own blade.
Still, I shape wings in the ash of snow
hoping to be forgiven
for waking up.

I tried so hard
to stitch the cracks.
I got so far
from myself.
There was a girl —
a wound that walked like love.
I blamed her ghost,
because ghosts are easier than guilt.

But I still search
for her in the warmth of another —
hoping to find the flame
that didn’t burn me.

The seasons change —
grief just shapeshifts.
What fed me then
poisons me now.
I once drank joy from a chalice of ruin,
and called it love.

If I could go back,
I’d still choose the blade that fit my hand.

I’ll make it through the winter, maybe —
but why does time crawl
when you want it to run?
I’ll keep sculpting angels from frost
until the sky thinks I’m enough.

If it kills me,
at least I was reaching.

If it kills me…

I tried.