Chill Me to My Core

I shake as the bear tree outside my window.

This Sunday morning is sharp; I could break my teeth

Biting into it I think; as I turn in my white sheets.

And even the binmen are rolled up in bed

And the dogs are convulsing.

Its winter you see;

And the birds and the bees

They’ve all flown away

So now I th-think of you

And its f-funny you ring the d-d-doorbell

As I wr-wrap a scarf around

myself

I imagine it squeezes me

Like an anaconda. I. Then. A Goth.

And I feel I’d like to daub my face with white paint

And pierce my tongue and

Give two fingers to the icy grass.

Then you blow in; hit me as hard as hailstones

Your fingers as sharp as icicles

Stab me stab me stab me

And I lie on my floor

And my blood getting cold

And your freezing words

Turning me blue.