My body is winter

My body is winter. Covered in thick, white blankets. It’s soft and mushy. You want to touch it. To mold it. To play in it. But those who carry on for too long will fall victim to frostbite. Vengeance. My body— the one I’ve been inside of for too long— has windows. The outside reflected in dark pupils. I see summer outside and imagine dancing in the sun. But my body is winter. Stiff. Cold. A sharp chill runs down my spine as I look down and see the flesh. I hold it, pinched between my thumb and pointer finger. I imagine taking a knife to it and cutting off the excess. But only in the winter, when nobody will notice the scars. In the winter it’s okay to hide. It’s okay to stay inside. To be sad, but only in private. A deep depression washes over me. I combat this virus, which attacks my body, in the only way that I know how. I write. I write a new story for the winter. With my body underneath the covers, I write.