Snow on Nerves

I knew winter had moved in for real

the day my shoulders wouldn’t drop,

even in a hot shower.

The water steamed, the mirror fogged,

But my spine stayed straight as icicles

clinging to the edge of a roof.

❅

My doctor asked about stress

And I almost laughed.

How do you explain

that your bones remember arguments

Like old weather alerts?

❅

The first snow outside looked pretty enough,

soft on parked cars, haloed streetlights,

But inside my chest it came down sideways,

tiny knives of maybe, maybe not,

What if, what if again.

❅

I wear three layers now—

shirt, sweater, practiced calm—

and still the draft finds its way in,

under the door of my throat.

❅

Friends say, “Just relax,”

as if thaw were a button,

as if my nerves didn’t crunch

like footsteps on frozen sidewalks

Every time the phone lights up.

❅

Still, I open the blinds each morning,

let pale sun climb the walls,

hoping one day it will be enough heat

to make the ice inside

Finally begin to drip.