i'm the fist that's balled up in your pocket when it's cold out.
with the nails digging into the palms. where the blood thrills and
warms from underneath the skin because the pain is bearable, but
the cold is barely so. the cold is a distraction from the pain
when i don't want it to be. to feel cold is to feel numb, and
to be without pain is to feel nothing. i think i'd rather feel
pain than to feel cold and numb. i'd rather you feel my knuckles poke
into you, against the fabric of your coat as they're sharpened
to a point that i've made five-fold. i'd rather you tire of holding
me like how i've held myself (un)accountable, than for you to take me
out of your pocket. to let go. i'd rather the thin fabric than the
thinner ice. i'd rather you barely shield me from the wind than
for me to lose all feeling in my fingers. i'd rather you be somewhat
there than not there at all. i'm a fist holding onto your warmth
this winter. it's snowing outside, but i'd rather hide away with you.