A Thousand Snowflakes

More insidious than anger, colder than grief, it seeps through my veins, crystallizing like fingers of ice between shards of porcelain. My headphones alone hold my pieces together; a single wire wrapped around a vase consumed by fractures. I wonder if Socrates had felt this way when hemlock crept from his legs to his neck, closing softly over his heart. If the great philosopher too had felt this incurable cold, then perhaps I am not so weak even when I tremble in the night, watching lights go out one by one outside. Petrified into repetition: sleeping, waking, working, writing; the embers within are growing dim. I cannot entertain conversation, cannot muster a smile to assure outsiders of my courage. The ice has reached that pool of courage too, spreading blossoms of white across its misty surface. My wishes have been swept away by the wind, my prayers drowned out by cries of anguish. I cannot see the heavens tonight, only endless black, and a thousand haunting snowflakes spreading across my skin.