I read of Others writing of Winter, 
(evil laughter in my maleficent throat)
knowing, few know Winter as I do
—a pale darkness, infectious & deathly.
Smooth, obsidian crystals that puncture even smoother skin to slice deeply, cleanly to the bone, spreading ice with frosted tendrils. Do you know Winter? 

Do you know the pain she shears off your esophageal ridges, swift meat slicer blades, whirring? Do you know, lips tinted shades of oxygen deprivation, watery drowning blues slivered with silver mist? 
Do you know, fingertips—aching? Aching until unfeeling—I touch ice, & it feels a hot echo to my numb. 
A drip, slowly descends. My only knowledge of the line existing between heat & frozen is a visual cue. 

Do you know Winter?

Or is Winter only a dream? 
Or like me, does Winter own, the depths of your blood?


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