It’s winter.
The cold has seeped into her bones,
her internal organs.
Sometimes, when she attempts to
siphon a hint of warmth from a
spot of coffee or black tea,
she remembers the icicles that cut at her
stabbed deep,
and caused the light in her lips to sink
into the depths.
words misspoken,
actions vile
from
the sniveling coward
the noisy narcissist
the bitter court jester
the coin-operated boy
The wounds closed,
invisible in daylight,
but beneath the surface a dull blue flame
persists, covered in the sooted remnants
of jagged scars haphazardly healed.
It is still uncertain whether the cells will regenerate,
once again glow, warm, pink with life.
For now, the hazy grey bitter breezes in, lingers,
threatening at any moment to spread,
like a cancer.
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