i have always been a lover of winter - the coldness that seeps so deeply into my veins that it begins to feel comforting, along with hot cocoa and holidays defined by presents.
for four christmasses in a row, i wrote you countless love poems. last night i peeled the shiny gift-wrapping off of them and found the foulest words about your manipulative lies. at only 13 years old, you were already an award-winning con artist and i wish i had told you earlier how disgusting i find that.
the sheer scent of sharpie still pangs me because i can picture the fake pictures you sent me of false torment just so i would make you feel okay and sane, though you were draining my sanity day by day.
and i can’t see a bagel without shivering because i know you never ate lunch and i always wanted to be just like you
you see, i wish i had realized earlier that when you keep your hand under consistent cold water it begins to feel like an instant fire.
for all of those years, i was simply walking on ice and it seemed like a paradise but somehow i figured out that my feet would only begin to burn as i got stuck with only the sight of thousands of other stranded souls.
i don’t know how i escaped, but it’s spring now. the unbearable chill of winters too many cannot hurt me anymore.