soul of winter
today was the first winter's day that didn't physically hurt—the first one i didn't remember all the gleaming, shining fangs of your most painful words. it was grey as i remember your mood being. no matter how happy it was, it seemed to kill you to smile, and when you did—it was always forced as if i had just fed you the most vile of poisons. you threw the word love around without meaning it, and i used to compare you to winter—i now see that was unfair: at least winter has a soul.
son of death
always dragged your feet around as if you had the weight of the world on your shoulders, but your name was never atlas and you were never that strong. always tepid or depressed there seemed to be no in-between. you tore me open so that my blood stained the snow—seeing how deep you could dig into my marrow before it broke. it never did, but my ego splintered and shattered and all my insecurities rose from the sea they were locked behind. you hid behind the beautiful sapphires of winters heart, but never did he cut me so coldly as you did. nor did the sun burn me so curtly as you did with the locks of your sun star kissed hair—one day we will meet again, and i will dance with the dragons of the sunsets you said never existed in me. for i am love and and light and dreamer—you are just the spiritless son of death.
as i sit in the snow, i smile and think of spring and summer days. of how snow and ice aren't truly cruel unless you don't understand them—perhaps, one day winter will forgive me for likening him to you. at least he has a heart and soul—two things you sorely lack. he didn't wrench my heart open and pour all the salt he could into my wounds and then leave me in the sea for dead—but i am summer born and the phoenixes danced their tears and feathers around me and so i rose from my ashes shining more brightly than before. i will never let anyone rain down on my sparks again—i am a nova meant to shine brightly always.