My blood is running cold.
Coagulating into a thick consistency of dread and monotony.
As if my own blood is crying sharp icicles.
Or maybe it is a single person snowed in
unfortunately trapped within the enclosure of a crevasse
for a lonely eternity to follow.
But I do not understand why
for it is summer.
My blood should be hot.
Burning my skin from the inside out.
As if my soulmate's touch has left burn marks in its trail.
Leaving me with beautiful scars as a reminder of their love.
But my blood is running cold.
Perhaps, it is frozen
and I have yet to thaw myself out.
YOU ARE READING
Fragmented
RandomA series of unfinished beginnings, endings, and sometimes their own words in between. This is a collection of storylines I ponder about, but I know I most likely do not have the agency to write each story its missing pieces.
