I am in no way a romance novel.

If the snow had any integrity at all then in would blow open my door, stretch itself thin to reach me and be my white out. It would Freeze my eyelids shut and pause me instantly in my sleeping position. Sneaky and stone cold. To the roof, To the roof, To the ROOF Matilda!

I don't give a fuck, let it freeze. I'm bone weary of trying to feel what I'm supposed to be feeling, and I will have no business pretending I do. I'm not dead for Pete's sake! I'm just a little sad. I'm not vapid! I'm adjusting! I still have my two feet and my blue eyeballs and my teeth. I still laugh when prompted and sometimes when not. I feel fantastic! At least I'm not a vegetable! Perhaps you may have an opinion and perhaps you don't, but frankly dears, I don't give a damn.

For now I am blank, then,

for snow.

for me.

Fresh and clean, wobbly whatever.

If north highland could be my clean sheets, then I would have no trouble knowing that I'm slept in, so slightly, but mostly just written on.

Over and Over, I think maybe I'm a sonnet, and over, or page 223 of a romance novel, the part where she falls eternally in love and then slaps herself in the milky white big busted dumb founded face and walks herself home instead.

Hell no. I am in no way a romance novel.

Kids should be out sledding but they're not, they should be traipsing through the butter, tipping the pristine where it rarely surfaces, But they aren't. Kids can't help it. They pounce at the mere mention of anything still. They can't stand the idea of sterile. They organize their armies and cry at things to rust them. Shut up Jessy, That is a gross and biased accusation. My Apologies. Rather, Its wearing and being worn. Personalization rather than consumption.

Today I will most likely embroider my initials on the sidewalk, but I'd change them, because I don't particularly like my initials. Though my last name would stay the same.

It's winter, and I'm not denying it.

Fear creeps at you, not with you.

j