50 Degrees

The cold is my commander, it teases and taunts me, whilst it shoves my sheath of warm cleaving skin sections away, exposed by its notions and collective consciousness. The sounds are complicated, the moons azurean hue resembles the gelidness of my cigarette's embers blue, and then it takes my final breath away. It isn't something that I barely feel, but rather something that lightly see. It's hoarfrost births its frigid shell on interstices I once called my fingers. And from this choke, this frozen voice is detained by the ice amplifier that takes each noise. Besides, in an interruption I hear my whorish roommates score of shouting scripted shouts, and moaning scripted moans. Each day I become less and less like any real human being. It's hard to believe that behind these walls that shield me from the albicant and avengeful heraldry cruel cold casts me through, these sounds are concentric like limited Earth words written in the prompts that some ill and raged succubus would. If only to lure herself from the pains she gained while lying to those amidst her closest loves. I am further distressed, though barely dressed, narrowly watching bits of frozen water interlace themselves beneath freezing in the machinations of my mind. This freezing genuflection hails to every servant of its rein, I can barely exhale the inspiration that rises from my eyes, until any skin exposed to the air is reclaimed by the commander for good. Then each of my neighbors' heads may revel upon the cold, and bow to pray for something more mild than these dwindling degrees.






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