It's inevitable that at some point in life, we all become cold, whether it's for a week or a lifetime, we become cold. 


But what is being cold? Being cruel? Sad? Distant? It's subjective to each and every individual. 


Through the course of my year, my oh so crippling year, a lot has changed. 


At this time last year I was insecure, broken, and lost, but I was warm. 


I was warm in the sense that there was this glow in my eyes that you could see buried, hidden in the depths of my deep brown orbs. 


This warmth held life, broken life, but still life. 


But that's not the case anymore. 


I've changed, I've grown, I've evolved into the person that I am today, the person that I am at this exact moment in time. 


I've become stronger, stronger than I ever would've thought possible in only the span of a single year, or more so something that I would like to think is strength. 


I am determined, I am fierce, but I am arguably as shattered as I once was, maybe even more so. 


I'm trying to learn to love myself, to be happy, and find people who accept me for the person that I am, but I've lost my warmth. 


No longer am I that warm little girl. 


No longer do my eyes have the small candle lit flame that gave off the softest and dimmest glow that signified life and hope in my adolescent eyes. 


My eyes, once scared and soft, protected by a fiend barb wire fence of strength, have began to dim day by day. 


And through this process, they have lost their light, and have thus become dark. 


They have become hard, hard and full of a fierceness that can only be described as borderline menacing, and possibly even lethal. 


My tongue, once feline held and meek, has since then been crafted to one of the sharpest points that is humanly possible. 


My voice, no longer soft and comforting, but harsh and emotionless when not oozing with poison and sarcasm. 


The once soft radiance has since then dissipated, and has been replaced with an intimidating darkness. 


But behind that darkness lies a story, a story of heart shredding loss, and a story of head throbbing hurt. 


At the beginning of my last year of adolescence, I had began to think in vein that myself and my surroundings had finally began to rise, rise and reach a new level of greatness that I have yet to experience. 


But oh was I so sadly mistaken. 


As I began to reach the middle mark of my year, I began to sense a change. 


A change that I knew and recognized all too well. 


Or so I thought. 


The familiar, creeping sense of my arch nemesis was followed along by an accomplice that I had, until then, never met first hand, the one that would be responsible for my soon to be pitfall. 


One that was cloaked and disguised by my all too familiar emotional combination of resentment and anger. 


But this accomplice would be much bigger, and have a much larger impact than its recognizable companion of addiction. 


Oh no, addiction was something that has always followed me where ever I went, something that I have sadly learned to become accustomed to. 


Addiction is a form of a being that had lurked in the shadows, hid behind every corner, awaiting me just on the other side of every fucking door. 


Addiction is someone that has been such an evident presence and key component of my life since my birth, someone who has known me since before my birth. 


Addiction served as a distraction for me, to work me up and blind me to the arrival of the true culprit, loss. 


While I was getting ready to begin the second half of my year and build a wall to separate me from my all too familiar foe, loss struck me. 


Loss knocked down the fresh building blocks of my wall, blindsiding me, and knocking me to the ground where it proceeded to knock the wind out of my lungs, robbing me of my breath that I still have yet to completely regain. 


After loss' merciless visit, robbing me of one of the most important people of my life, robbing me of one of my guardian angels and the only person that I dared see as a mother, I have remained left on the floor, looking around in the shadows as I still felt the lingering presence of the criminal. 


Soon after loss spat in my face and ripped out my heart, I lied on the floor, curling into myself, sobbing and holding myself with such an iron grip that one would think that I would only damage myself further, but that's not what happened. 


Through this suffocating grip I scavenged together all of the shattered pieces of myself and forced myself up, pushing myself into a position where I am now only left to stare into the soulless depths of one of my biggest personal demons, and hugging myself to protect me from the invisible

presence of loss. 


Sitting across from me, staring into each others eyes, we are both aware of the truth. 


Aware that no matter where I go, or what I do, addiction will be there to taunt me, an everlasting and inescapable being that will follow me to wherever I choose, but in the form of someone that I will forever have a connection with, a connection that cannot be severed, a connection that is through the blood that runs through my very veins. 


But that will not stop me. 


Even with the scattered shreds that will clink whenever I move sitting inside me, waiting for repair, I will either have to accept or overcome the only thing whole that is left inside of me. 


The only organ that was fused together the second I pushed myself off of the ground. 


Fused together through the blood that pooled around it as it broke inside of me, only fusing together through the plummeting temperature of my being. 


Fusing into a block of ice, and further transforming into a stone cold structure, that has the fein resemblance of what used to be a red, pulsing, hot blooded heart. 


A heart, something that is now left dark, unforgiving, broken, and lastly cold.

This poem is about: 
My family


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