frost, frequently

the frost covered x lies in the corner with a book covering its eyes—

which should come as no surprise, he never woulda came

unless he thought it could all be the same, but he's always wrong

so he pretended to sleep while searching for a song

that held significance that no one would notice,

it was painfully obvious and morose,

but everyone kept playing their social letter games,

pretending the k and the a and the b don't exist,

and the l and the e, they continued to persist.

was that his intention, they murmured,

to be so awful and full of pride?

that was the reflection in the frosty window,

and without it, he surely woulda died.

this reflection lives in the damp chambers

of my piece of mind; I can't control,

he eats the pits of all the nectarines

and keeps my right hand on parole.

his gravel wrist of bones has got a vice grip

that I can't replicate, and the forlorn trip

we're begging to take won't come true,

he's blocking off the avenue, mind if I

go back in time and try again once more?

the x awakes to hear a frantic sort of scratching,

and wonders aloud who is writing on the door.

who else but the reflection in the frosty window,

apologizing for all his behavior before.

the unrelenting sun has blinded the crew

of the traveling art show we've all been through,

with their poorly made sticks, they poke along,

telling the more fortunate folk to remain strong,

and to stay smiling, but I know they're wrong,

because they can no longer see through the window—

(the reflection can no longer wave a toxic hello)

no, I refuse to be your dark-rimmed 'strong',

to anyone, my inky smile should belong.

you will never be that empty page

that I once wrote on under a summer moon.

there was only the reflection in the frosty window,

and he knew it would all be over soon.

deadly lily, I'm sick of wasting minutes and words

on this endless breaking circle directed towards

the boys who only want something pretty,

not so hollow and gritty, like the flower that I pity—

so pretend you're something less,

something elusive and tragic and fruitless,

because yes, I did eat all the pits,

and blew the reflection an alphabet kiss,

hoping he'd pull me out of all of this,

but he just traced this frosty poem,

that I wrote down as a newfound totem.

it filled up all my last pages,

spewing reasons never to read the first,

but hurt always comes from the reflection in the frosty window;

this book is truly the worst.