Inspired by Say Hi's 'November Was White, December Was Grey'.
I own neither the song nor the works of J.K Rowling.
The frost enters her apathetic bloodstream slick as diseased oil atop stagnant vinegar.
It seeps through layers of consenting cartilage, trickling into her shrinking heart, drip by drop.
Until the vessel has simultaneously runneth over and gasped from dehydration.
And yet she cowers from the heroic flames lapping at the bolted door.
She's sure that once she has vanquished the cavernous point of no return, she'll rescind and allow the inferno to char her frigid wounds.
She does not understand that the glacial terminus has no circumvention plan.
And so she sheds her treasonous exterior and instead lays satin grief upon her naked skeleton, allowing the bereft silence to thunder around the empty apartment unshackled.
She makes a fortress of biting grief and wails for the absence of victory.
Why have these terrible means vindicated the abhorrent end?
She rubs unanswerable examinations into her emotionless skin and grants permission for them to sit, thick and viscous until she drowns under the slippery strata of remorse.
October falls into November and November bleeds into December. But winter claimed her as a lover back when the maypoles were still erected, phallic and valiant under the gestating sun.
It is February before she realises Siberia has conquered her lethargic brain and that screaming underwater is impossible.
And yet still she gasps and splutters, aching to expel the crystalline diamonds, so bounteous in her failing lungs.
She licks her lubricious lips and finds glass snowflakes have stitched the crooked chasms together.
They smart and hiss, so used to a barren home before smashing as she manically claws her face, screaming soundlessly as an avalanche tumbles.
The languorous flames caress the handle with carnal strokes, aching to bathe her with redemption.
But is too late.
She is no more than a submerged glacier on the wrong side of a locked door.
For winter claimed her long ago.
~Fin~