she never told me about the winter, which was real.
I could feel the bleakness of it eating my soul like frostbite.
The grey overcast loomed over like a fucking scavenger. I could not tell life from death and day from night and waking from sleeping.
I had no scent of my own, the scent I wore was of death and vomit and urine and cheap cigarette and whiskey.
My eyes were untrustworthy, and my senses were breathing their last with my pulse, it was winter and only winter that was real. The birds weren't, blood both in and out wasn't, my breath certainly wasn't. I watched my breath leave and my words steam, they floated above the burdened trees, they floated above me. last of my tears froze, my bones got brittle and I didn't fucking rot until Summer.