YOUR NEW SHIRTS
tell me spring is coming
but the weather app on my phone
still says snow. Death comes
so easy when your body is already
cold. I can’t die here, waiting on
the promise of warmth.
This isn’t how I go—sweatshirted
up, socks on, hiding my skin
from earth’s elements. I am
meant to die somewhere in the
loosest pit of dirt, all bare-boned
and underground. I am meant
to have half of my body in the water
at all times. This is not to say I haven’t
found happiness here, in this tundra.
Your chest, our blankets, the heater
have all done the best they could
to keep me content. But I am
always so cold, my mind turning
to the bluest thoughts the second
I am alone. I am meant to be
somewhere else, love, somewhere
where the sun is more than a neighbor,
somewhere I can go outside, let
the chilliest of thoughts evaporate
off of my skin, blend into
more humid air.
Glint Literary Journal 