Broken piano keys, shattered window panes, deadly shards of glittering ice slithering into my veins, feeding on my blood, the sensation is slightly tingly ticklish itchy pinching stinging burning biting cutting piercing stabbing ripping tearing breaking crunching smashing fucking agonizing! Killing me, murdering me, the cold … the ice…
And within lies a monster, flashing her weapons of mass destruction in the belly of my deepest darkest surviving pit of gruesome rage. The growls of pure unadulterated ire rip through my being and I’m melting in a pool of my own lava–that of my molten wrath, spitting like crackling sparks and flames, bitter and angry angry angry pissed fucking pissed!
Why am I so cold? It’s like ice water is being poured into my boiling blood; I can hear it sizzle like ice cubes will do when dumped into a pot of hot liquid. I’m calescent and hyperborean, bleak as the gray-white and opaque sky of a soulless winter afternoon. My eyes are like muddy windows into the raging fires of hell, and yet I remain chilly, frigid, and brittle and cracking at my shear stillness, the stillness held firm by the unwavering ice…
Ice queen. Beautiful shattering frozen luster, burning to the touch, yet burning with an arctic foreshadowing of death…and the ice of the coffin in December.
They crack like whips and pierce like fine splinters of wood, these cries of the dead in my bottomless fire. My mask of icy composure, my pretense of becoming a wall of impenetrable stone or a grotesque statue of invincibility. How do you love me? You light a match next to the castle of ice which is my protective wall.
Scream dearest, until your throat is raw and your stomach is sore and your eyes have become two large bulging hard boiled eggs in your pounding skull. Howl dearest, for the friend who is lost, the lover who has jilted you, the mother who abandoned you. Weep scalding tears which burn excruciating paths of steaming hatred and pain to the tender beauty of your parted lips, and have a sip of hell, for it is all you or I have left in this unforsaken world of pitiless winters and fleeting summers.
Remember despite the ice that my heart is toasty as the devil’s wood stove, and I’m madly and insanely in love with the joys of agony and grief and anguish and bitter woe, for how else do we recognize the joy of joy itself?
Fuck you. Leave me to freeze like the wounded beast I am. Allow my icy veneer. Soon I’ll thaw, and shivering, confess my undying love for you once more through frost-bitten lips and chattering teeth.
But for now, since you’ve stabbed me with your mighty sword of ice, I shout fuck you!
“Winter then in its early and clear stages, was a purifying engine that ran unhindered over city and country, alerting the stars to sparkle violently and shower their silver light into the arms of bare upreaching trees. It was a mad and beautiful thing that scoured raw the souls of animals and man, driving them before it until they loved to run. And what it did to Northern forests can hardly be described, considering that it iced the branches of the sycamores on Chrystie Street and swept them back and forth until they rang like ranks of bells.” –Mark Helprin, Winter’s Tale
“I didn’t want to wake up. I was having a much better time asleep. And that’s really sad. It was almost like a reverse nightmare, like when you wake up from a nightmare you’re so relieved. I woke up into a nightmare.” –Ned Vizzini, It’s Kind of a Funny Story