inside winter's arms,
the skin peels backwards off your spine and your insides are left unzipped.
hypothermia chills you.
all pallid leftovers and bleach soaked
irises, you're composed solely of denial and
something that burns like snorting cocaine.
when your affair with the sun ended and your tan paled,
you looked just like your mother.
wasn't she the most beautiful icicle ever to
grow downwards and prove gravity correct?
icicles aren't meant for the sun and they aren't meant to
reach like sunflowers either,
so don't deny your roots. They'll grow downwards
too
and lips stained that color red only run in the family.
before winter came for you,
i bet you still thought you were some sort of ephemeral doll.
all big eyes and plump pouts,
now your pupils are so wide and dark they look like empty space
and your fingernails cut deep.
stop priding in your new-found cold and your detachment to the sky.
the truth is, you won't ever forget the shake in your voice when you gave that
sharp smile,
all clenched teeth, and said
"oh sun, you only think you're in love with me"