winter, apparently

it is winter, apparently.

she is flawless.
her seemless cold sterility remains the perfect neurotoxin.
as particles of ice gather
in the nape of the neck,
i feel her grip
tighten;
strangulate;
choke.

she leans heavy.
she weeps tears of snow.

i swallow hard
and bite
and fight
the flood of blood that swells the head with her nonsense.

i make no bones about it.
i hate winter.

these tears of ice are not real
they are plastic.
fake and feigned.
like her sisters, she too will pass.

but this blood she spills
and spews and spits,
stains, like cheap red wine.

this time.
what is it this time?
a storm, a blizzard?
another war?

she seeks attention,
someone to love,
but who could love this… this… this monster…?

unyielding. unloving.

stillborn, and yet
the birthing blood still flows
sticky and red.

still,
constantly wiped clean.

but it stains.
permanently sullied.

her crimson footprints define our paths
paths crossed, and double-crossed.

she is necessary.
she is loved, by some.

she is a test
of my endurance, of my strength.

what will she next give birth to?
will we still be at war, with everyone?

what will this new year hold for winter,
when her young sister returns;
arms laden with hope?

© Kat McDonald 2015
the world is fucked.