Cold

lacrimae rerum

I like to think of myself as a writer.


She wakes up in the morning and can't go back to sleep. She attempts to move her blue frost bitten hands through the snow that surrounds her. With shallow breaths she takes drags of the cold air in, her lungs aching with each inhalation.

She wonders, if she bites hard enough at her wrists, would she bleed to death and go back to sleep for the rest of whatever was left of time. She doesn't have the strength to lift her fore arms to her mouth. At first she thought she would die of hypothermia, but the sun has gone down and up thrice, and still she is alive.

She doesn't understand.


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