witty-remark's Diaryland Diary



I know just what to say to you to hurt you, and I want it to hurt. It starts with words perched on the top of your conscience, like a rooster digging its talons into the crown of your head. A small crack forms in your self-assurance and winds its way down, spreading like ink drops in water, until it settles in the pit of your stomach. Makes you nauseous. It bubbles and spurts until it pushes your confidence so far up your throat, you throw up your own backbone, leaving behind a gooey, viscous doubt that drips from your pores like snot.

The morning air reached out and clawed at everyone’s breath today. It collected their panting heaves in clenched, icy fistfuls and chilled their warm sighs into a billowing haze. Still, with most blanketed in their scarves and buried deep into their winter coats, all I could think to myself was “It’s not that cold.”
It’s not that cold, I repeated it my mind, as a frost unbeknownst to me crept into my flesh and settled into the heart of my bones. Wintry and bitter, it froze my marrow. Small brown icicles formed, fitting together like fingers in clasped hands, and made me look firm on the outside but brittle to the touch.
It’s not that cold, I continued. I couldn’t feel the harsh brisk slaps of the wind knocking against my cheek, or feel the snow settling into the soles of my boots and numbing my toes. It wasn’t that cold because I was frozen from the inside out and nothing in that moment could be as cold as I was.

7:59 p.m. - Friday, Mar. 06, 2009

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