Your eyes are full of winter.
Your expression is humming against the moody ribbons of color etched into your skin. The scars of your past triumphs become only notches in wood. Your lips are red and swollen from kissing the frigid air. I hesitate to touch you; your skin is fragile and vitreous, like frozen porcelain.
You used to play the piano. Your hands were the only living parts left. Now, your delicate fingers crack and fall away into the snow. The blue-ridged mountains, your mountains, are pleading with the sky. The clouds are held up only by your unnervingly limpid gaze.
Crystals form around your mouth as your breath curls upward. Your eyes are screaming now, as your syringe melts in your hand.
It's sucking the life out of you.
Rachel J. Clark
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