My affection for the cold is matched only by my hatred of the sun. I wonder why this is so. Even as a child, and long before I knew what drama was, I always found more comfort in the icy embrace of the night rather than the open arms of the daylight.
In the few precious moments I get to lie down on my cold, empty bed before toiling once more, random thoughts accompany the whisper of Siberian winds outside my window.
My stares are icy, my few words biting. A palpable chill envelops me, and you feel it like a winter's breath.
Indifference is the frost on my skin, which has always been cold to the touch. I used to laugh when people remarked on that.
"Your circulation must be bad," they would say, as they drew away in surprise and shock.
"No," I would laugh."My circulation is fine. It's only that my blood runs cold."
And nervously they'd titter, before they would ask "Why is that?"
"Maybe I'm dead inside."
It is but a logical consequence once you freeze a heart.
Does the heartbeat not slow down in wintertime? To preserve life, it must.
Eventually it beats so slowly one would think it was dead.
But not quite yet.
I do not eat and crave but sleep.
A hibernating beast.
That must be why I am cold to touch.
Leave me dormant, touch me not.
Do not speak of summer's thaw.
Frozen solid is what I know.
Icicles crystallize like spikes.
Then emerge like stalactites.
Deadly beautiful in form.
To pierce and stab
To leave you torn.
Encased in ice.
Let glacial prisons
For if they thaw
Then they will rot.
Like all that once lived
And now are not.
To water form
And then evaporates
And is gone.
Let sleet veneer me
Like a sheet
Let hailstones mark time
As I sleep
The winter of my discontent is long.
In silent solitude
I sleep alone.