Winter Women

Outside--

the chill of her cold appears like wisps,

deciding to make its home inside my bones.

Every lick of her icy breath is a familiar comfort.

As she settles in,

she carves out a kitchen, a living room, a place to sleep—

she’s here to stay.

 

We are of the same brand--

two sides of a cleverly crafted coin.

She is a welcomed guest because

I am better at being friends

with women who wear their bitterness like a spring skirt;

shifty and short,

sashaying every dark part of their souls

flirtatiously at their hips.

 

She is my sister--

A mentor in how to

shape my tongue into a sword,

mold crowns out of icicles ,

and weave snowflakes into my skin.

 

Out of all her students,

I make my armor the best.

Wielded so precisely that

only someone with the loyalty of the sun

could melt it away.

 

It is a good thing then,

that the sun

is a man

who prefers to kiss flowers,

instead of carving out homes

in boys who know how to

craft crossbows out of light

and dip arrows of fire in gold,

but no nothing about

women soaked in winter. 

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