Well, well

I keep searching for the house. Your eyes eventually get used to the light bouncing up off the white everywhere-- or so they tell me. My lungs sting with the dry frozen air as another blast of wind carries the powdery snow up at my face.

I'm looking for the house. Past the edge of the clearing-- and I thought the well was an abyss.

Well, it was. And honestly, if I told you how I ended up there, rotting for years at the bottom of a well in the middle of a snow storm, I'm afraid what you'd say. Would you ask if I'm dead? Or ask how I'm not?

I'm looking for the house-- I have to keep moving. My clothes aren't dry, but that wouldn't hurt a spirit. I felt numb— maintained Numb some time ago. But there is a point where “not feeling it”— or feeling anything, really, doesn‘t stop the decay.

He put me there at the bottom of that well. I could feel the water filling up around me and flowing, growing and freezing with every tear. With every tear in the fabric that made me— fraying and breaking apart by the day.

When I asked if I can come out of the well, he just gave me a look— As if mysterious could suffice for communication, when an answer could save my damn life.

I asked. And you left me there.

I’m looking for the house. I climbed out on my own the day the rusted chains broke and I saw you for the parasite that you are. The jagged stones made my hands bleed, on the way climbing up.

But I’m free— and I did it without you.

My feet burn lurching through feet of snow here— but there’s no giving up when waiting on you was my purgatory, and now freedom means an open, endless field of cold wind and desceptive smiles crowded around campfires I can’t afford when I ask the price.

It doesn’t matter. I will find my house. But first, I’m going to find yours. And I’m going to burn it down. Maybe then I’ll be warm.