Scenes From the Longest Winter
Distribution : i would be honored, only please let me know :)
Disclaimer : These characters belong to each other, but Fox holds the official copyright so I'm just gonna make it clear now that I am not making any money. This is a labor of love.
Author's notes : I feel a bit strange coming back to X-men fic after such a long hiatus, so this is sort of a litmus test to see if I still have the ability to write anything even remotely coherent. I'm considering adapting it to a full length prose story. . . .I'd love to hear what you guys think on that.
I have known the unutterable sadness
of winters in New York, Oregon, Washinton DC,
and all the cities between denial and the truth,
between running from fate and running
out of time.
I have known--
The snow blown emptiness that exists
within the middle of crowded streets, of sidewalks
and public transit stops.
The warmth of my hand pouring through
the translucent ice of her fingers,
(hating yet needing the gloves)
as we stand in the metro line.
The futility in the pretense that the chill
numbing her skin
is only from the wind or icicles on subway rails.
I have known--
The cinder-block helplessness of gas station restrooms,
passing her paper towels
under shut and locked metal doors.
The garish crimson of blood
that will not stop trickling from her nose,
(not even when I pour myself
through her skin)
The endless pacing across enameled hall tiles
until the door opens
and we continue to believe the lie that we are fine.
I know well these things and yet
far greater desolations,
for the spring is always slow to come. . .
I have known--
The hideous piousness of government hallways
who those who swear to protect
swear it only if we share their blood.
The endless frustrations the endless lies
that cloak in smoke the monsters
and turn us instead into the pariahs.
The silent anger of the suspicions
that my hands are tied.
All the signs she is dying, but none of the proof.
The finality of freezing rain
plastered against unforgiving glass,
and the howl of wind against the door.
The naked fear when she is silent too long,
when she stumbles reaching for the door,
though for her I pretend never to see.
The screams in silence of motel rooms,
twisting in the chains of mind,
wondering when the daffodils will come again,
wondering if I will plant them on her grave. . .
I know well the nightmares of the longest winter.
I live instead for dreams of the spring.
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