These days no shower is hot enough.
Every millimeter of me not red under the spray
is a study of gooseflesh topography,
an untouched map that begs for smoothing
before its mountains exhaust themselves.
These days I stand over the kettle
just for the heat of its scream,
and listen for the words in the smoke.
I want to follow it back to its fire,
like maybe that’ll be warmth enough
for my iced bones. Do you want to melt,
the sun asks, because I’ll help how I can,
but you have to come closer, soon
and I close the curtains and tie off the quilt
over my head. Let my lungs cloud
for the sky won’t. Don’t taunt me, star.
If I could supernova, my god.

~

this evening’s poem. It’s cold here.

xx,

Meg