I feel like ripping off my skin
Tearing piece after piece of pale off
Letting my raw exposed flesh breathe in the sunlight
A snowfall on the asphalt

My red hair so frizzy
My dry skin so fair
I've always wondered
Why people stare

My off-white teeth
protrude from my face
I don't deserve admiration
I'm an utter disgrace

My body so curvy
My cheeks so chubby
I will never understand
How anyone could love me

As I lay in my bed
With tears in my eyes
I pray
One day
My shell
Will match my lovely insides

Pale flakes float to charcoal slate,
Tumble onto hard packed ice
that has already engulfed  the garden path.
Scratched frost, crystals with silent stinging bite.
They line the garden fence and cap the swingset.
November nights are drawing in,
it's nov. third, and the kettle sings next to a calendar of red crosses, marking the days that have passed me by and the "sleeps until" for the twins. A quiet kitchen, womb to the outside world until the door opens - a shocking birth into a white winter. November has always been a rushed month, a countdown, a month for planning, details
and not quiet stopping.
For now, I enjoy the quiet before the storm, or has the blizzard  already been and gone?
The snow will thaw, and where will we be
When all the nights of November are over.

Used to be frail, and pale, weak inside now
the darkened leather of skin has done much
more than save my life.
It's consumed.
Dark steel armor has worn, formed rusted spikes
that slowly push to impale with blunted
and poisonous points.
I've inhaled
After one long, deep and drawn out sigh in
to twilight's heels, it feels as though it kills
to survive the night.

. . .

To survive tonight
Welcome to the party
Trash can lights light, illuminate
To survive tonight
Free junk and dry cardboard
Beckon, calling out names
That sound like yours

She had a tattoo
Of dandelions on her
Pale, beautiful wrist