Winter was absolute, winter was shamed.

And we misunderstand what it means to be alive sometimes.

We take for granted the most fragile things,

as if being bed ridden was delicate.

I fight for my life all the time

and whine for a steady love that stays.

I'm terrified you might

that you might stay and resent me.

This poem is a lie.

Talk to me like you talk to god

an ode to my kill of the night,

cause they were always leaving

you were always grieving.