Oh
the terror of the shutters that don’t close right, so the tender
breeze floats through, alive as you are, curled under blankets and
shame, and it knows you, it knows what you’re hiding, and as it
lifts up one flap of hair, running against your bare skin and it
whispers the things you never wanted to hear, cold and ice blue,
falling against your reddened ears, and nothing can save you. Nothing
changes what you’ve already done. There’s no place left to hide,
the shutters will never close and the fingers of cold, winter wind
will always find you, and chill you to the bone.
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