My Winter Girl
She had eyelashes of snow.
I saw her as a winter girl, cold and sharp and sometimes unfeeling,
and she lasted like a tree in a blizzard:
laden down with ice and snow, crippled by the frost in her very bones,
her branches crack and splinter.
Every girl comes crashing down at some point
but she wore brokenness as if it were a cloak, shielding her from other
tragedies that may hunt her down and stab her
heart, leaving her frantically trying to scoop up the blood
and pour it back in.
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIyou can’t break someone who’s already
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIbroken.
I watched her downfall from the sidelines,
cheering as she stumbled forwards, blinking her snow-lashes like a stunned child,
and groaning when the blackness of this cruel world
came and bashed her to the frozen ground,
gifting her with black eyes and broken bones and heartache.
She cried tears of ice.
She was my beautiful winter girl, ravaged by a past
held deep under a wall of steel and ice,
but her eyes told me all.
They cried tears that refused to fall and so, became
decorations hanging from her eyelashes,
until I wiped them away.
She had a voice deep and husky, telling tales of a
girl trapped under a grave of snow,
screaming from inside a crevasse where nobody could hear, besides
just herself listening to the echoes.
But I waited for her to tell me to listen
and when she did, I understood her pain and she passed handfuls
to me to help her hold.
She had eyes of hot chocolate.
When I first met her, they looked like frozen bark,
an icy shield warding off unwelcome visitors peering into her soul.
The frozen bark bore many scars, but the eyelashes of snow
hid them from those who didn’t look close enough.
I blew my flame breath at them, speaking
volumes of warmth and love and desire,
and frozen bark melted into hot chocolate, reminding me of
nights curled up in a blanket, wrapped in woollen clothes,
as my mother made me soup and hot chocolate,
my favourite combination.
I tried to make my winter girl the same loving combination,
but she shuddered and pushed it away and succumbed under
pain after pain of leaking emotions through her borders.
She was my scarred winter girl
until she thawed
and became my beautiful girl instead.
I saw her as a winter girl, cold and sharp and sometimes unfeeling,
and she lasted like a tree in a blizzard:
laden down with ice and snow, crippled by the frost in her very bones,
her branches crack and splinter.
Every girl comes crashing down at some point
but she wore brokenness as if it were a cloak, shielding her from other
tragedies that may hunt her down and stab her
heart, leaving her frantically trying to scoop up the blood
and pour it back in.
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIyou can’t break someone who’s already
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIbroken.
I watched her downfall from the sidelines,
cheering as she stumbled forwards, blinking her snow-lashes like a stunned child,
and groaning when the blackness of this cruel world
came and bashed her to the frozen ground,
gifting her with black eyes and broken bones and heartache.
She cried tears of ice.
She was my beautiful winter girl, ravaged by a past
held deep under a wall of steel and ice,
but her eyes told me all.
They cried tears that refused to fall and so, became
decorations hanging from her eyelashes,
until I wiped them away.
She had a voice deep and husky, telling tales of a
girl trapped under a grave of snow,
screaming from inside a crevasse where nobody could hear, besides
just herself listening to the echoes.
But I waited for her to tell me to listen
and when she did, I understood her pain and she passed handfuls
to me to help her hold.
She had eyes of hot chocolate.
When I first met her, they looked like frozen bark,
an icy shield warding off unwelcome visitors peering into her soul.
The frozen bark bore many scars, but the eyelashes of snow
hid them from those who didn’t look close enough.
I blew my flame breath at them, speaking
volumes of warmth and love and desire,
and frozen bark melted into hot chocolate, reminding me of
nights curled up in a blanket, wrapped in woollen clothes,
as my mother made me soup and hot chocolate,
my favourite combination.
I tried to make my winter girl the same loving combination,
but she shuddered and pushed it away and succumbed under
pain after pain of leaking emotions through her borders.
She was my scarred winter girl
until she thawed
and became my beautiful girl instead.