bite me 12.21.20
BY ABIGAIL MOONE
They call it winter because it is cold and hurting a little bit encourages clearer thinking. Because snow swirls in thick winter skies that nibble on my purple-in-the-18 degree-night earlobes more aggressively than i tend to like. Winter is blazing white and burning, eyes cry without control and noses drip endlessly. New snow on naked skin boils me to cleanliness. Become pure. There is no snow this winter. It is almost 50-degrees and i am warm in woven sweaters heavily patched with generational trauma. What do i become without purity? Will there still be apple cider laced with cinnamon sticks and Uncle Tâs guilty tears? This is not the winter i wanted. This is not the winter i needed. i am waiting for snow. Cold. Dripping eyes and frozen noses. Bite me.