// windowsills and snowflakes

Collection I-III out of VII

I.

You know, I’ve felt this plotted land beneath my hands before. A grimy substance digging underneath your nails as the temperature drops into the negatives. What are you digging for? What are you trying to uncover?

I’d try to guess, but even you don’t know. You’re not sure, you never are. Wandering these white canvases, leaving your own mark, snowflakes covering behind your footsteps as if you’ve never trudged a path there of your own.

Rabbits.

A kin such as yourself, will fall down a similar scenario, resisting will always fail. It spreads all its roots into your gums, it plagues, and it’ll tar onto your arms. Weighing heavy on your heart, beating, still thumping on the inside of your chest.

Little wisps of frost close onto your eyes, will you be blinded by this? My memory seems to fail me, of what became of you and your amends. Did you save them? Or did you just doom yourself.

A blinking light, seemingly so close, but far and swept away by all the storm that you grittingly try to contain.

May it be a blanket on your wounds, to cuddle up into these hills, and wallow in your own misfortune. You try so hard to erase and carve out all that made you who you are today. Even if this is just another way to blissfully pretend you’ve made no impact on this atmosphere.

Why must you cover up all that you’ve known? Why must you cover up everything you’ve so far shown? You’re no longer bound to the word of “failure,” you’re not the markings of a bloody pen on paper. Just a child, akin to who we are, meant to enjoy and unravel what this world has set apart. 

II. Cold.

I’m content with being alone. Always being swallowed and sunken into this embrace that feels so alien yet so homely to my own. As if this icicle of interpretation took me into a frozen state of thinking, blinking feels like ages had passed. Staring into its icy reflection, only to realize I, myself, was my own malotype. Crystallizations of past enjoyments, regrets, vindications fell and tangled into the roots of my scalp. Finding ways to intertwine and plunge their refined yet split ends into the skin, melting into the crimson-red streams of blood flowing to my neck, then chest, the arms and legs, squirming to find a way into the heart. Yet always freezing back-up near its vicinity.

Are they afraid to reach closer? Or is my own being not ready to accept all that has come to be.

I am not prepared.

Not for death, nor the life I’ve been granted on a daggered spoon. That I so put into my mouth and smiled to hide the splinters that made gashes on my insides. Pearly whites, or what was left of them, chewing on the wood that was called my childhood. Is it all a figment of an infant's imagination? Will I eventually awake to realize this was all a slumber, nestled into her warm hands that cradled me closer to her soul? I’d like this dream to sooner shatter. Wishful thinking, you’ve always said, “hope will be the litten flame that so carries forth your wildfire of imagination.”

One singular event, and the smoke rose off the center of the forest. Dimming down, there was nothing more left to consume for the trawling and enraged. This was the so-called ‘unforseen’ end, that you bit and chewed on your nails in anticipation for, begging at the mossy floors to take it back and let you rest upon the embers once more. But now It’s gone. Wishing you could somehow take back the moment, so discreetly bolting down the doors, even when the storm had already blown them off its hinges.

Instead of liberosis you achieved a fate so hurtful, it became ironic to degree, to witness your erosion falter, and your body turn to trees.

III. Snow.

Could I still call snow a dearest relative? My friend? A devotee to the crystalized veneers that formed under my feet. I’d bow my head and pledge a soft, unspoken word. Just embrace me, run your nails of deceit along my back and make me new again. Refresh and jangle up my thinking and alas a servant I will be. Unless the servant I’ve already been, a fool, a jester, an optimistic pessimist.

White me out in a picturesque powder, slow down the rivers in my canals, so that this thinking could be stopped.

I’ll move along another path, another group, a crowd. I’ll find a home inside a painting, I’ll find a family between the trees. Still, it’ll be a cycle, stuck in a trace of everyone that I’d collect. Nurture what’s been given, a privilege to know, a grace to be seen. And yet your eyes will never rest upon mine. With sticks and fire you could retire a flock amidst the sky, you could burn it to the ground and maybe then you’d be proud. Once there’s a risk to all you’ve torn down through, maybe then you’ll find an effort to seek out and call your own.

Could you.. Could you still hold me,

Lend me your ear, and I’d hope that you’ll hear the rasp within my cords. Feel the hoarse nature of all that absorbs, my streams of blood will be filled with sickly-sweet intoxication, and all that I’ll say is that I’ll eventually miss you. A dear friend. One that’s fallen into shadows and squeezed through shut doors, found its way into my premise, and called me Its own ‘home.’