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Frostbite
  Lately, the chilled autumn air seeping in from the window
  has kept me up at night—pouring loneliness
  into my empty chest
  (generous portions for every gasp)
  and I exhale nostalgia.
God, I've become so acutely aware of the chasm between me
and them
  and of how my fingers skim the collarbones of everyone
  that I push away: "Stay there," I say. Arms length. Perfect.
  Teasing myself with superficiality
  and nothing more.
It's just that—oh, I can see it clearly:
  How easy it would be to leap into their arms;
  To look someone straight in the eye without flinching:
  No apologies for existing.
  I walk so lightly,
  breathe so shallowly.
Talk so quietly—
  Do you even know I'm here?
  Or have you already had the funeral...
  The fire inside me has dulled to an ember,
  and I don't want to become coals.
  Yet I can't help but scatter at the slightest intimacy:
  ashes in the wind,
  cremated before my time.
  See, these arms ache with solitude, and I might die.
  Tell them it's frostbite.
It's so cold tonight.
  Jesus Christ, it's just that—
  I can't remember how it feels to be truly
seen.

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“If you're losing your soul and you know it, then you've still got a soul left to lose” <br /> ― Charles Bukowski