Maybe it’s because the weather’s been so unusual here lately, but all my metaphors are cold. I am cold and can’t seem to get warm. Under blankets and layers my fingers are ice.
I feel bare and pressed against a frosted pane of glass. Exposed without relief.
I have been reading poems about loss. Sitting with them, letting them lap against me. The places they touch turn to frozen fire.
I feel hollow and scraped on the inside. Like bones without teethmarks.
It’s one of those times. Those hard, shivering, aching times.
Think of me kindly, would you?