February.
The cold in my bones reflects that of my heart.
The paralyzing timidity that incloses around me.
The feel of being seen by people as something insignificant.
I don't want to appear translucent.
I was to wear my scars on my arms with pride.
Not the pride of someone who appears to have things together.
But the pride of one, whom, after all is yet stripped away, has the courage to look up, smile and say quietly: "I survived".

And I write this with my eyes closed. Chicago, a snow globe around me.
The cold seeping into my feet from the draft.

Oh February, with your worn out people, tired from your cruel winter.
Riding trains to get back home. Trudging through endless amounts of snow.
And we laugh at the importance of our unimportant lives.
A bitter laugh, like the wind.