yellow

winter fever

forging the date to be swapped with the first snow fall. ah, the dead buried beneath their all white coffin, the new evergreen air rising to its kingdom in the hallow of a cold, cold day break.

the pasty girl of christmas past has scrapped her knees in the pits of the ice, and wrote her last words over and over and over until they bled into her skin. she pretended they were kisses, but every letter left a bite. she would not look out the window into the darkening tundra, not to see her own ghostly, snow-white complexion. the season was a season of anger and isolation. deep in the frozen woods beyond civilization, that is where she sat for comfort among the dead twigs, and she held them as her own friends, the only ones left. there was no dream after today, no blue sky beyond the misting grey. it was constant, this winter burden, and it would never go away.
so, when the hues of neon lights grasps house trimming, and she was met with scents of cookies and foreign smooches on the cheek, she watched it from a chilling daze, never to bathe in the warmth. for warmth was a thing people portrayed in words and on the screen, but never to be felt in the center of your chest. the cold was all knowing, all seeing, and it cocooned itself inside your skull until the entire being was ice.
reign in a beginning with goodnight kisses and party poppers, she stayed in her room. she'd watch the timer run out, and not a silver of difference did it make. the cold, refrigerator food was a companion into the blizzarding night, and not a bit filled her. an empty chamber where her heart, kidneys and intestines should go.
the ice did thaw, but the girl's blood did not. winter was forever.

today, it is the first day of change. the cold air rakes up my forearms like the chilling touch of a past lover. the flakes, so peculiarly different, fall as a moving painting, for they scatter themselves and burrow into the ground in hopes of leaving a piece of art. i watch it from my window, yearning to touch the sky with my invisible hand; to live and breathe in a place where only icy castles filled with kings and queens lie.
tonight, i will gather my friends (the fleshy ones, not twigs) and jazz about the dancing flakes. though our bones are brittle and our lips are blue, we swing at midnight to our own melody. in this moment, i find a peace with the white. yes, the white is not hostile, but purely divine. i will pack it's holiness into my pockets, save it won't melt by the morning, and carry it with me wherever i go.
tomorrow, we are brilliant. i'll look into a lover's eyes, his icy blues bringing warmth to my frozen fingertips. together, we scream epiphanies into his foggy windshield. i'm not afraid, i'm not afraid, i'm not afraid.
the beginning of seasons greetings, and my heart holds the biggest signature. find lust for peace in the gloomy sky above, seek justice in your frostbitten hands, and freedom at the snowcapped skyline. i am free, i am free, i am free.

the girl with clenched fists and bright eyes; she's watching in a far away telescope. she knows how to control the sky, and laughs in the face of looming, grey clouds. "take a hit," she says as the ice chips her nose in a piercing blow. and through the blood bubbling on her teeth she says, "another."
because the cold will have no take on her, it will not take her.