Brr.oken.

This wintery chill numbs the fronts of my
shin bones in 180 denier tights.

The skin below my fingernails, a lake frozen
over by shiny pink sheets of ice.

Three coats I wear, just one on my back.

With my fairy floss hair, stuck cold to my
mouth, spun high in the air.

Lost is all appetite for food, for reading,
for hunger, for words.

A collapse of the mind, fatigued in this cold.

All thought frozen. Standing. Still.

-jl