In a vision,
I have white skin of cardboard
ridged and man-made,
lacking in touch
A deep December cold is moving, stalking
up my hollowed back,
misting around my shoulders,
closing in to my whitewashed neck.
Forming glittering ice upon my pallid lips
my words slip from frozen sentences.
I can witness only a blue room,
in which I stand rooted into the earth
with soil between my toes
Running ice crystals along my skin,
tracing my veins
my slowing pulse,
to find outstretched hands,
to form frozen prayers at my fingertips.
In a vision,
this is my natural state
as I hold my breath
and wait,
unmoving,
preparing to shatter.
