if i could envelope you in a clever lie of love
with blue-ish, blue-ish minds and
tiny brown eyes,

then i would look you dead-on,
ask if you mean every word you say.

i want to be your favorite person.

polka dot frowns that are whimsically sorrowful
mean nothing much to me
if they don't mean much to you.

the way the clouds shook the night
made me bitterly frozen.

you knew it.

who could help me when my chest was burning
in the cold?
who could tug me up by my arms and
turn me calmer?

and you were there with your mess of hair
and traffic lights
like a living, breathing memory.

sharing little,
but when you do it wraps around me,
like a story is meant to.

let's not feel blue-
ish.

Keep me warm.
Who has seen me with the dirt scrubbed
from under my skin
and my eyes more tired than a drawn out lullaby,
held the dryness of my hands in winter,
and let snowflakes fall on my eyelashes?

I want everyone who’s ever met me to hold a block of ice in their hands until it melts, solid turns to liquid and their palms are red and raw- the red and raw of the cold or of scrubbed skin.

Keep me warm.
I can’t focus in the wind that burns my eyes
and my state of mind.

I am numb. All of those I’ve traded hearts with know I am numb,
know I can’t feel the brisk breeze on my toes anymore,
know that my brain dies whenever my breath shows.
But I want my world to know,
even those who are still glistening in summer’s sun.

Who will hold my bare hand with a gloved one
even though my skin is rough and
my fingers are tinted purple;
then brush snow off my skin?

Keep me warm.

I want someone to make me feel heat for the first time, flowing through my blood and to my head; to let me relax to a state of surreality.

Then, I’ll shatter like ice does, and melt before anyone can pick up the pieces,
asking, “Who will keep me warm?” when I should’ve just bought a ******* coat.

Red tinted glasses
in summer’s sun
will never pass me again.
Either way, I'm just a winter’s fever
that’s so ****** it wants to **** me.

I've beaten every thought in my brain
to a pulp, to a grain of
“I hate myself.”
and the yellow sun is hidden beneath these
lifeless trees.

My headache flickers like a fire,
like a nervous sweat at spring approaching,
at all my plans for March and for June
and for us.
Skin, hot to the touch, is sprinkled with snow
that may never melt.

What if I waited a little longer
and the ice broke when we kissed?
Nothing would've changed, I think,
nothing would've let me pick flowers in the rain.

The blood orange scarf
hiding my face
and suffocating me so I will never see
the pink of your cheeks.