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my cry wakes me. my black hair is wet, my t-shirt soaked. the smell of sweat and stale passion fills the frosty expanse of the icy room, and filth surges in the air. coldness creeps up from beneath the bed, but it’s not as cold as the glacier within me. blankets lie on blankets upon me, though warmth disappeared when he did. outside speckles of raindrops from a moody, grey sky fall onto barren land with early morning shivers creating a frozen, dewy surface. the cold air floods down my throat, in rhythm to heavy panting, and a dark soul seeps into my chest, eating at my heart.   

i found this the other day. i wrote it in 2009. i know that i was writing through a fictional character, but i can see that i must have felt cold and alone at the time.


photo by harry bloom