I no longer live in saccharine summers but the winters and pestilence of my past. I crave the cold like a blood hound just to relinquish it by the heat of a fireplace. I plague my soul with frostbite yet it will not shatter. I yearn for the serenity of snow of feeling numb between the dirt and fresh snowfall.

But perhaps even more I long for the feeling of my hands scorching in the dull heat when i come back home. Feeling my skin set ablaze against the light of a candle. It is what makes me feel alive, like I am not dying. I can not sustain what it is to be satisfied anymore with or without the feeling on my skin. It’s like I’m shedding what has been cultivated in my bones and becoming lighter.

 It stems from a memory, deeply entangled within the roots of my mind, of drowning. You do not know how lonely it is to die until the last breath escapes your lungs and everything is cold. I felt the hand of god drag me toward the light, but it had just been a mortal, selfless savior who I once knew. Their hands were warm, and the light of the moon was just as warm and forgiving as a sunrise.

 I am trying to relive the moment when I was suddenly alive again, the gut wrenching admonition that I kept breathing. I have never wanted to die, but when the embrace of death was more of a kiss than a bleeding wound, how could I have not become infatuated with such a terminal glory.

So this is where I have found myself once more, a late night bath. I have not even bothered to take my clothes off which only makes the freezing water a small bit better. I do not care how long I will be chasing after my breath because I know I will be warm soon enough.