Liquid rush, heat, sensation, a pattering sound, drip drip drip warm against the skin and why, why are things gone gray and muzzy?

I can taste salt and copper, and feel the heat of the white sun like a weight against the heart of me.

All the outside’s gone warm while the insides of me are frozen solid; there’s a heart somewhere in here, cracking ice with the kind of triple-beat reserved for drummers on meth.

I woke up holding your letter and a razor — I know it was a sick joke from the start; this can’t be my blood. Mine would be crackling into icicles, perfect and immediately chilled.

Mine would be etched in whorls of frost, spindles of ruby, feathers of frozen heat.

I’ve never been cold like this, blind like this.

This isn’t my blood.

The letter cut deeper than the blade, but it isn’t my blood.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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