december
The taste of iron clings to my tongue,
sharp and thick,
like something pilled from the earth's deepest wound,
cold as the air that cuts through my lungs
freezing each breath before it can leave my chest,
Winter has a way of making everything feel like glass
Brittle, sharp, waiting to shatter.
My lips are cracked, numb
And I can feel the weight of the cold in every step
a blanket of frost on my shoulders,
the world silent but for the creek of old bones
and stinging of frozen skin.
Every inhale burns, leaving a metallic taste
A reminder of something forgotten.
Something old and bitter.
The sky hangs low, heavy with gray
as though it too is choking on the cold,
unable to swallow the weight of the passing days.
And still, I move through it -
through the biting wind,
through the haze of something I cannot name.
Leaving behind tracks in the snow,
each one swallowed by the cold,
erased before it can matter.
The taste of blood - salt and iron
mingles with the frost on my lips
and I wonder
does anyone else feel it?
The way the world is paused,
frozen between breaths,
waiting for something to break.
Copyright © Emma Atkins | Year Posted 2025
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