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it’s freezing in the quiet empty.
cold is comforting in its honesty;
the heat may envelope me but it only burns my skin,
its lies are all-encompassing.
yet the cold is here now,
and it is blunt, but it never hugs - it loves without a single touch.
the heat tries to love,
but it sears and scratches my bones, marking and tearing at my skin.
it smears its ash over my broken body, tears turning to steam and my gasping sobs turning into a cacophony of silence.
‘would you rather die of heat or cold?’
someone once said to me that the world will either end in fire or ice.
i know what i would prefer.
i know what i would rather feel.
numbness, hot, blazing frostbite causing slow inane hallucinations, a sick parody of the little match girl.
scathing, writhing flames licking the walls and leaning in, reeking of its victims and leering at its future prey.
i know myself well.
i hate that sometimes.
did you know that cold is not a feasible term?
cold is not its own self.
cold is simply the absence of heat.
a room filled to the brim with snow is not full,
not in the way a room full of fire is.
a room full of fire is suffocation in its most simple form,
smoke rising and smothering.
the snow is breathable, almost nonexistent,
and some animals even hide in the snow for protection in the winter.
did you know that?
the heat is a hitch in your breath, it’s a splatter of ink from a shaking hand.
it is stifling and deadly, not an embrace but a chokehold.
the heat will kill fierce, passionate, ares in his most pure form.
the cold is a ghost of a touch, a never ending inhale, a whisp of an idea.
it is a weathered blanket, holed and tattered and a false shelter in the storm.
the cold will kill gentle, quiet.
there is no glory, no fight in dying of cold.
resignation is cold, so it makes sense that cold will kill with resignation.
too little or too much?
i have always been safe in my choices.
too much will never make me empty,
too much will never leave me in the dark, blind and unknowing,
too much will never let me stay alone in blue air and white breaths and blurry vision from the saltwater streaming down my crimson cheeks and lips like shattered glass,
too much will never crack me with nothing, a void in my eyes and a thousand yard stare,
too much will never keep me deathly still in anticipation until everything seeps out of me in a realization that I only anticipate anticipation.
but even so…
too little will never send a fire through my nerves and cauterize my heart,
too little will never shatter me in a haze of red and dusty charcoal,
too little will never trace delicate fingers of ember across me and scar me in the ashes,
too little will never kill me with a glance, break me with uncertainty.
drowning is inevitable either way.
i will drown in either the oasis or the ocean,
nothing or all.
too little will never satisfy me,
but too much will only hurt me.
adventure has never been my friend,
and courage is swapped for anxiety.
my mind is not my brain,
and its thoughts aren’t my choices,
so i take the safe road,
as i always do.
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the oasis is an empty salvation.
the ocean is an empty home.
water is simply an empty.
in the end, i will die, and it will be silent.
it is on nights like these that i think i will live in the nothing until nothing is my everything.
until i know the nothing as my home.
...
i will never know fulfillment the way i know the empty.