blue and cold in the summer heat

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic

Blue and cold in the summer heat

As I aimlessly walk about
glimpsing those I'll never meet,
I pensively reflect
on what could be.
My eyes glaze over;
my brain starts to flee.

I subtly begin to tremble and sway.
My heart turns a certain shade of grey.
And in my head I'll hear myself say:
"it's my pockmarked face...
I'm cursed by those pimply vestiges.
The misery in my countenance -
that's why it must be this way."

"Or perhaps the way I fail to hear -
the result of my dysfunctional ears.
Or how I speak - the way I appear;
I certainly am considered as queer."

Here I stand frozen, shivering,
in this icy blizzard,
made vulnerable, quivering,
by the absence of my jacket.
A jacket made not of felt,
but one that melts
under one's tongue -
delivering into one's blood
a euphoric, transfiguring flood.

Blue and cold in the summer heat,
I stare blankly at those I've failed to greet.
Thinking nothing of bitter frostbite,
I apathetically examine the goosebumps,
holding my arm up to the light.

Blue and cold in the summer heat

As I aimlessly walk about

glimpsing those I'll never meet,

I pensively reflect

on what could be.

My eyes glaze over;

my brain starts to flee.

  •  

I subtly begin to tremble and sway.

My heart turns a certain shade of grey.

And in my head I'll hear myself say:

"it's my pockmarked face...

I'm cursed by those pimply vestiges.

The misery in my countenance -

that's why it must be this way."

  •  

"Or perhaps the way I fail to hear -

the result of my dysfunctional ears.

Or how I speak - the way I appear;

I certainly am considered as queer."

  •  

Here I stand frozen, shivering,

in this icy blizzard,

made vulnerable, quivering,

by the absence of my jacket.

A jacket made not of felt,

but one that melts

under one's tongue -

delivering into one's blood

a euphoric, transfiguring flood.

  •  

Blue and cold in the summer heat,

I stare blankly at those I've failed to greet.

Thinking nothing of bitter frostbite,

I apathetically examine the goosebumps,

holding my arm up to the light.

 


Submitted: December 27, 2020

© Copyright 2021 olive tree. All rights reserved.

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