I can't feel my feet.
Snow crunches under
my inadequate shoes and
melts into my socks.
I tread lightly.
My steps are quick,
my near-invisible footprints
fading swiftly behind me.

I walk quickly, though I
have no particular destination
in mind.
I do not seek refuge
from the icy white specks
swirling around me.
The cold was biting,
once,
but it must have stolen
its fangs from a spider
for its venom
numbs me.

This strange white world
is bereft of sensation, and I
have no desire to leave it.
When I depart
for places walled in and
warm
my feet will burn me
as they thaw.
I have no desire
to face that pain
just as I have finally begun
to cease feeling
my old, ever-present
ache.
When I remove
the garments that chafe
the rents and rips
I have torn
into my skin I
will once more wear
my wounds
as a badge of shame.

As I traverse this place of
icily blunted edges,
I gain knowledge I
have often sought.
I know what I want.

I want to take off my coat,
to pull my shirt over my head and
kick off my soaked shoes.
I want to slide my slacks
over my hips and
down my legs.
And when I have removed
the layers of fabric that stung
as they scraped against
my much abused skin,
I want to run naked
through the snow,
my bare feet sinking
into its softness, flakes
blown against my battered body.
I want to fall,
to tumble across the frozen ground and
let the cold sink
its soothing fangs into all the wounds,
all the holes in my flesh and
the tears in my skin.

Once it is done,
I will lie there
with all the warmth
slowly ****** from me,
life bleeding
from my skin
the way it dripped,
red,
from my cuts, and
I will be peaceful,
at last.