The End of Winter
My bones will sprout soon.
Today it will snow, and the city will shut down, and I will watch and laugh. How curious to exist in a climate like this, to watch the place I call home crumble because of a storm, minor or otherwise.
My bones know that it is the end. They ache to be snapped into seeds. I am always writing about death and rebirth, about how my teeth will redden into the skin of an apple and how you will swallow my remembrance with reverence.
In a month and a few days, our bodies will be ripe for harvest. The skies thick with rain, the earth saturated into a womb. Never will I be the beginning of something. I strive to end, which is why I am the snow, a tomb of breathless beauty; it feeds and freezes. It doesn’t mean much. Don’t think about it too hard.
Yesterday, I wrote again. Pathetic that I stopped, but for days, I have slept and dreamt and wept and wondered. Does it mean much that I spent the winter six years ago weeping for a man I thought I loved and who said he loved me but couldn’t have me? Couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t. How silly. I digress.
Days like these remind me of winters where I’d don snow pants and scarfs and gloves and hats that slipped to my eyebrows just to lie in a foot of snow, to watch the flakes drift onto my covered body, to test how long I could stand the frigidity. It was too long. Always too long.
When I turned five, it was still autumn but just barely. My birth hung itself from cracked rafters, breaking a second too early. But at the end of autumn, it snowed thick flakes into the shape of a home where I slept with frosted lips, sugar-sweet dried skin, and cheeks pinked with devotion to the weeping sky.
My bones will sprout soon. I can’t wait to watch the hairline fractures split with stems. Oh god, I can’t wait to flower.
It’s snowing now. Roads are starting to close, despite the melting flakes, weakened by the end of seasons. How funny. Haha.