you are a shard of glass, cut between

the palms of my hands.

cutting deep, and surging

into my veins.

the bitter smell of blood

... haunting my taste for

reality.

you are a scar, white,

sensitive to the touch.

pure as the sleeping child who still

dreams there are, places

she can run to; hide,

with monsters

who comfort her.

you are a memory, encased in my

imagination.

created by the cruel truths

only the dead. the dying... understand.

you are smoke that fills my lungs,

leaving me gasping for air; life.

my bones tremble with a longing to

move next to yours again,

our blood boiling with love.

this is what winter has taken from me:

that singular heat of your small

breast in the cup of my hand...

now.

you are the poison that taints

me. teases me, brings me forward, then

sets me back... further than I ever was

before.

but I am the living, the creator of my

dreams, the inventor of my schemes.

creating my own sabotage of self.