wet winters make for cold feet
on colder stone floors
bad decisions like snowflakes fall
each one a shudder and a memory

icicles kissing on shivery lips
piercing rightfully frozen skin
and the sled rocks back and forth on a wrist
shining in the blizzard moonlight, rusty
and gilded with the executioner's tears

the water is solid in its liquid state
and cascades in sheets, not trickles
down a marble mountain face

not only the feet are on the floor
but her legs, her back, as she falls
riding the avalanche down to the tile

those snowflakes falling on a winter night
stain the blood white with their purity
their sharpness stacking in cruel plowed drifts
piling on top of her spent body
buried deep in the bathroom floor

and the snow is falling from her eyes
the wet that makes her winters so cold
and her icy veins are undeniable
but she still can't believe that she is crying