The Thaw

January was cold.

Weather has never bothered me,

Nor have I worried about freezing,

But I could tell, there was ice somewhere,

Capable of freezing me to the bone in seconds.

But I didn’t notice, I couldn’t feel it.

Cold? What cold?

Yet January was cold.

February was mild.

I rehearsed for the stage,

Spending more time in hallways than anyone should,

Waiting for my cues,

Waiting for the show.

I rehearsed to be social,

Spending more time on my own than anyone should,

Waiting for my friends,

Waiting for my life.

And so, February was cold.

March was stormy.

The show finally came,

At the expense of some friends.

My friends finally came,

At the expense of my girlfriend.

I sang

And sang.

Sang for my relationships,

My future,

Waiting for my life.

And so, March was cold.

April was the sun.

Blazing in passion,

In happiness,

In warmth and in love.

I sang for my school,

And won for my school.

I sang for my friend,

And he sang for me in return.

And so, April was cold.

May was dry.

Suffocated by exams,

By fears of being unwanted,

By missing class and by fights with my future.

My last show merely a blip in the suffocation,

My pride at the images I had created on the canvases of the bodies of others

Barely making a dent in the suffocation I felt every hour.

I tried to sing for my friend,

But no sound came out.

And he would not sing for me in return.

And so, May was cold.

June was the ice,

Capable of freezing me to the bone in seconds.

The sun burned me with the cold,

Leaving me vulnerable and extremely aware

When the songs stopped.

Those I had sang for,

Those I had won for,

Stopped singing for me in return.

My friends began the first days of their futures,

While I stayed stuck in what they were so eager to leave behind.

And my relationships left for themselves,

Leaving me to drown it what was left.

And so, June was the coldest of all.

July was foggy.

No songs stood out,

No friends returned.

I lived alone inside myself,

Wandering campuses of places I would never set foot again,

All to try and appease a sense of worth that I had long since lost.

Without those songs, I was nothing.

I was nothing.

I was nothing.

And through the fog, no songs could change that.

And so, July was cold.

August was rainy.

The fog cleared, and I could feel the effects of the ice like I had never felt anything,

And the rain fell.

It rained for days,

The rain that belonged in June fell,

The rain that belonged in July fell.

It rained for my songs,

Now dead as a willow no longer standing.

It rained for my friends,

It rained for my future,

It rained for my life.

And so, August was cold.

September was windy.

I was determined to find a song,

But the wind carried the voices away.

It mixed them all up and spat out screams,

Trying to persuade me to drown yet again.

But I didn’t want to.

I blocked out the songs,

Refusing to drown once again.

And so, September was cold.

October was overcast.

I convinced myself that I had learned how to swim,

That I no longer needed to fear drowning.

I opened my ears again,

Reluctant to sing again.

Then someone took a chance,

And he tried to sing for me,

But my fears lingered,

And I would not sing for him in return.

I could not.

And so, October was cold.

November was warm.

I met someone who did not sing for me,

And I did not sing for him,

So we sat together in silence with no fear of drowning.

And now we sing together,

Our songs not meant for each other,

But just to sing.

To live.

And so, November was warm.

December was still.

Our song rang

And rang,

Reaching anyone who would hear as we shouted triumphantly

“We do not sing for each other,

And we do not sing for you,

But we do sing.”

The stillness carried it to all who would hear.

And so, December was warm.

And now it is January once again.

The calendar turns and turns and never ends,

Putting me back in the fear,

That there is ice somewhere,

Capable of freezing me to the bone in seconds;

And so, January is cold.

But maybe now I have a coat that works,

In the form of a second song, enhancing my own,

And thawing any ice that comes my way.

This poem is about: 
Me

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