It was cold. The bedsheet, the pillows, the duvet. Cold. The threads, the fibres, the molecules. Cold. And she lay there bare minimum, bar minimum, bear minimum. It was cold. And she did not know when her psyche would explode into the unconscious void and lay it all bare. Colder still. Only the surface could tell with tiny goosebumps kissing the air those human fibres hissing with hair all to suffocate the freedom, unfair. Colder. Her eyes fluttered beneath hypnotic veils her memories floated the icebergs of life and light tessellated those angry decisions chronic crises in Chronos’ chaos. Almost. Barely imperceptible. Colder and colder. Beneath hagridden eyes and the sun-kissed moon a chiaroscuro of broken twilight. Soon. Bear with me. For tonight she had plunged Cupid’s thinly-veiled threats into her bare chest. The blood that oozed out, Crimson for the shadows pale for the moon and vital for the sycophants of night, was… The coldest.
P.S.: This one is more of a surreal dance, if you will. A stream of consciousness that my mind played with, imbued with dreadful imagery.
What you just read is the verbatim vomit of vulgar scribbling that I allowed to spill out.
What did the poem invoke in you? Leave your thoughts below.
Perhaps the blood was warm when it escaped her chest;
perhaps everything feels cold once it leaves the heart.