When I was a girl, you told me to wear layers—to avoid getting wet—because when the cold enters, it refuses to leave. After you died, I forgot.
Grief, like a bird, pecked my heart ajar. The coldness of your absence crept into me.
Now bitter winds live in me, whistling hollow memories. My blood aches, lost in this shuddering body maze. With each breath, icicles form—jagged points stabbing my tongue, trachea, lungs. Marbled chrysalides encage my lashes, my dreams: frozen, forever stillness.
On sleepless nights, I whisper: You can’t scream. This cold will shatter you like ice.
“I write because I believe in the transformative power of story.” – the writer