When I wake, there are tears on my face
From condensation
From the ice that pricks my skin
and paints my eyelashes as I sleep.
Unfolding like the undead
I rise, creaking upright.
My joints are consumed by layers and yet
my bones are still frozen.
Warm tendrils are not available
to sweep away the rigormortis of sleep.
Instead, the floor feels like Lego,
and the cold spreads into my teeth.
Add another layer,
wrench on cardboard socks.
For the sake of “mental health”
I am told to open my curtains.
No sunlight penetrates the grey clouds
(a prison),
A reminder of
gOoD oLd EnGlAnD
and its bloody winter weather.
One, two, three, four, five
winter medicines all downed,
Accompanied by an ice cube;
The glass on my desk has no purpose when the water becomes a solid overnight.
A 'blanket of snow' does not compare
to the overwhelming, enveloping, smothering
freezing
sensation of that room.
The den of comfort is turned to ice.
The ghosts in this house are warmer than the tenants.
Perhaps I should join them.
"Perhaps I should get double glazing."
About the Creator
AJ Birt
History nerd who likes to live in a fictional world... also pretty gay.
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