New England Winter

I don't know where I'm going or where I am. I'm not smart anymore.

I don't know...life is too hard and it'll be like that anywhere. But the world is forzen, not cold. Just frozen here.

I can't breathe. And when I try it's ice.

It's twelve degrees outside, six up from what it was four hours ago.

The grass underneath is still bright green. It doesn't have time to die and turn brown around here. Just one day it's frozen. Like the woolly mammoths preserved perfectly pristine with food still in their stomachs.

And that's me, I think. Crystallized in time.

Frozen. But still green. It's deceiving because I'm not alive even though I seem like it. It's just a pretty picture preserved of what I was last season.

It's still all mostly the same. I need someone to just sit there and hold me for a long long time so I can forget. But there isn't anyone. There never has been. So I hold myself. So I'm supposed to find that stable in-between place, because supposedly that's all we're ever promised to have.

But I don't trust promises. They're always broken. And I'm tired of making them one-way and finding nothing but space and ice on the other side.

It's time to go back to the heat. The world's too busy with itself, frozen in time--and this year wasn't even bad. No blood shed to compensate for the white. Green, green all around freezing over and over again with the bulbs poking through too ahead of season because the climate's shot. I need to thaw. Go to a place where it doesn't freeze. Find arms other than my own. I'll go back to dreaming for that. Maybe my mind will conjure up another, someone who isn't real, who won't come waltzing in unannounced into my reality.

Ditch this. The pressure's breaking.