The streetlights stand cold against my eyes,
glazed with disinfectant and a hint of resentment
toward the way they tower above me like trees;
I can only howl with the wind at the very sight
of handprints littering the city or the sickening
crunch of bone-white snow beneath their feet
as they tread upon my fingers, huddled
against the breath of winter.
The sirens never stop hunting the lost,
never stop crying out against the still air before
they bring me down, arms shackled to arms
of a chair and lying to me through their teeth. Every hiss
twists my lungs and scrapes my cheek raw against
the ice, straight from the Devil's throat
and yes, I heard my name, twice said incorrectly,
twice in my chest and twice to me, directly
and I had no choice but to listen - I, I
couldn't stop the frost from crawling in my skin,
couldn't stop the whitewashed walls from caving in,
and the streetlights stand cold against the sky.
I'm inked in words they etched into my skull using
my own hands, shaking and ashamed, thrust
into my pockets. It makes no difference - the past
only echoes the future into avalanche - I resent
the trees shedding the fire from their branches,
taunting me from a darker world as I shiver
against the breath of winter.
