Icy by VaN SHuttleworth

It’s cold.

Icy.

Slowly, the air gnaws at my exposed skin, just like this icy cold gnaws at my chest.

One would think—or perhaps expect—that teeth sinking into flesh would cause severe pain. However, it is the exact opposite effect that brings my heart to the brink of distress.

You see, it is the lack of feeling—the numb knowledge of missing cries spewing from exposed nerve endings—that drives this melancholy deeper into the hungry maw of painfully personal and persistent self-loathing.

Help.

Help!

Help?

Funny how desperate invocations lose their urgency when they fall upon ears that long ago forgot those pleas might be uttered in tones different from their own.

Is the joke, perhaps, on those who spend their energies answering these calls so often that their own desperation is brushed off as tricks of the wind?

Or does blame lie lazily and uninvolved across the shoulders of those who believe that the call of wind and misery sound so similar that one could easily mistake them?

Yet, all this talk of fault is unnecessary.

For all who claim to be, much like me, only human, will err and, without intent, make someone cold.

Icy.