Chris M.

The sky is pale blue and the trees are a light, soft brown. There are skeletons growing out of the snow, the same color and texture as the stone town hall building behind them.

I paint my nails with a polish Amy Rose gave me. It looks like tiny little oil spills, silvery rainbows typing poetry and holding down the strings on my friend’s baritone ukulele. It matches the glimmer of the snow.

I feel very numb in a comfortable and light way, like when you put weight on your arm or foot for too long and it falls asleep. My mind has pins and needles. With the cold keeping me indoors I’m getting even paler, and I can feel myself gaining weight, swelling, bloating more than ever before. My fairly new nose piercing bleeds and my pores are gaping. My brother tells me my face looks cratered.

I touch things and people lightly, barely grazing any surface.

I have a new favorite song:

I don’t know if I’m explaining the spirit of my week adequately. I wish to do so, but I feel like I’m being vague and disconnected. I feel airy. I feel like Luna Lovegood’s voice, or the first breath of cold air when you step outside, or like a tiny sliver of moon. ♦