In The Snow

If I wrote it in a poem with flowery words, would you finally listen? Or would it remain hidden too well between the lines — just like I am.

Or will my purple prose be too much and too needy like me? Will the shadows that haunt my waking dreams remain in my eyes with no one to show them to?

People don’t like the dark. They tiptoe to the edge and turn back despite who is trapped in it. They will become trapped in it too, and then I won’t be the only one sitting here. I will have introduced them to a world that will have them running — running back to the safety of the light.

You won’t see my shadows. You close your eyes when they’re near, and you shut the door in my face the moment they leave my lips. You leave me pressed against the door to watch the small cracks of light beneath the frame with longing. You leave me alone out here. In the void.

In the cold.

Snow. It’s snowing now and I can see its pale blue glow. The dark has become frigid and there is no moon to light the abyss. The whispers of winter seep into my nose and mouth and travel along my veins, leaving me cold and heartless. I feel nothing but the cold.

The memories and the shadows deprive me of sleep. They bring visions as I toss and turn, and I awake in pain with a racing heart. They’re here with me. In the snow. I hear their whispers, and the faint sound of a clock ticking reveals a thinning veil.

The shadows pass the clock to and fro, and my fingers twitch as they search for the key. The key to rewind time. To take it back. To return to better days instead of ticking so quickly now toward the end.

I scramble toward the white wooden door. The wood splinters and tears my skin, and the paint is stained crimson. I look through the keyhole to see the light. To see those who are not shadows. I scream. They glance at the door and run further away as I bleed onto the snow.

©2020 Shane Blackheart

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