Skin white as winter, hard to reach.
Crystals nestled under the bed of her nails.
A cry buried. Waiting. A scream so necessary yet she simply cannot fix her mouth to make a noise.
If I touch you, will you break? Shattered. Among the rubble, the ruin…winter.
Strewn about, perplexed by Beauty. Light.
Free. It’s Yours.
Take this. Your grimace confirms your worth.
Again, waiting ever so patiently. Cold piling up all around.
Cold in numbers reminiscent of grains of sand in a desert so vast…one cannot see, winter.
Gil told you about winter. In America. How can it be so cold?
America. The healers have gone.
Your grimace confirms your worth.