I couldn’t believe that it snowed overnight.
How could it have when my flesh was boiling under my covers while I slept?
Skin still hot from being buried alive under two heavy mexican blankets and a quilt, skin still hot from the flush of anger I’ve been hiding under baggy t-shirts and a tired pale pallor.
The pathetic amount of snow dusting the poor people’s suburbia outside only reminded me how let down I’ve felt all weekend. Let down by myself, let down by others—a feeling that feels like rubbing salt into my bitter cracked angry flesh.
Breakups are overwhelming especially when you are delivered the pieces in the mail, expected to understand and accept that this is how it was meant to be.
Deluged with every moment between now and late hazy summer, I’ve been sifting the pieces trying to find that one piece that doesn’t fit with the rest, narrowing down the crime to its weapon of destruction.
Not wanting to see anyone and not wanting to be alone, dressed and ready and under the covers—the art of half-assed practiced in repose.
Glad the mothermonster was gone and even more glad that his face arrived on my doorstep. Arrived ready to drink wine and watch bad tv under blankets, avoiding touching feet because our friend love does not include cold toes.
Maybe that’s what I need to hold on to—the friends who intuitively know my needs and steal my bed and blankets not the ones that only enjoy my presence as a place to hear their echo.
Now that the excuse for snow has melted I can outside.