Sub Zeroed

It’s chilly tonight. My arms are covered in goosebumps. Pinpricks of shivers travel across my self proclaimed curves; the terrain of this body is cloaked in Winter. I could easily grab a sweatshirt or blanket, but I’m relishing the discomfort. The soul itself is uncomfortable from contorting around my rib cage, so why shouldn’t it’s vehicle be uncomfortable too? 

Again, I shudder. This cold is biting. It snaps at exposed limbs hungrily (reminding me of a starved junk yard dog). No matter though. Let it lacerate skin. I need the distraction. Focusing on phantom pain occupies my present, keeps me from looking backwards towards the past. 

All I have been doing lately is gaze behind me. Can’t shake the shadows of “what could have been” and “what I should have done.” Continuously I am cringing over wasted matters of the heart. I cannot change these former experiences as hard as I might try to. It isn’t in the power of my person to undue what has already been done. But if it were… .

I would rewrite history. Go back to that first moment he touched me and shriek, “No. Never.” Save myself the tears of future betrayals and mistakes. Nights spent with his burly arms around me, needling out the parts of myself he found too boisterous, would be erased. I would instantly be put back together; gorilla glue wouldn’t be needed to hold me upright. All those moments of my time that first love squandered would be my own again. 

Almost crazily I think, “Without that experience then none of the others would have touched me either.” The parade of suitors to follow (which in their own ways left scarification upon the skin) wouldn’t have been given the chance to meet me. Surely they wouldn’t! Wouldn’t they? Or maybe they would. Perhaps the reason I allowed myself so grossly mistreated is because I never thought myself worthy of proper respect to begin with. 

On some level, I was probably already broken. I mean, really? Whose to say I wouldn’t have made the same mistakes? If not with him then with someone else, right? What is for certain, is how crippled I am with regret. Grown weary from all my hours lost to self deprecation and unworthy lovers. I am exhausted from dancing to the tune of boys when I wish to waltz with men. 

I have to change; I have to morph into a lioness. Protect the bounty of my heart with wild abandon against predators, ignoring any pleas of mercy or placating apologies. Try to toy with my emotions will you? Then watch as I pounce upon your armor and leave welts of shame across your delicate physique.

People are not born to amuse. Women were not made to be accessories to show off to your friends. Can you not see this? The human condition demands for real connections not petty flirtations. It leaves us wanting after awhile, covetous and strange. Just look at me: I am the perfect example of embittered disillusionment.

The hopes which once could scorch the sky (the idealism of a perfect love) have become no more than a flickering candle on a pitch black night. There isn’t much left of me to give. (And oh how petrified I am to give what little of myself remains! Yet, give it I will. Freely too. Because the thirst within me cannot be quenched without risk). I crave affection. I tremble to be understood. I quake from being misled. 

Boom. Another jolt of frosted air kisses me. It mocks me while I type. All of myself turned numb, thanks to the masochist in me. Numb from love turned sour like old milk, numb from the punishment of the cold and numb from a heartbeat gone silent. I might as well be frozen where I write. I might as well be the ice among all this snow. I might as well be buried beneath your avalanche. Look at me. I am becoming nothing more than an empty igloo. Hollow. Devoid of warmth.

My blue skated eyes stare empty ahead. I have no more to say or send out into this virtual world. There is only images of a lonesome bed now and the knowledge that no comforter can provide me with any heat. The glacial breeze has finally claimed me. There shan’t be any peace in my rest tonight. I’m to languish in the cool; I’m to compose words in the company of snowflakes, jacket-less and unseen. I am slated for the Winter Winds. I am done in from all I’ve recounted and cannot keep.  

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