Winter Came To Stay

A prose poem written during the peak of my seasonal depression, several years ago

Winter Came to Stay

Fransivan MacKenzie

 

i. the darkness invaded my soul again, its dreary hands drawing the blinders on the chambers of my chest. it’s winter underneath my skin and the sun is in hiding. i can't see anything past the blackness. i do not know what exactly happened. one night, i was okay, smoking on my front porch. i must have left the door ajar on my way back and welcomed the coldness home.

 

ii. i waited too long for the day 

i. the darkness invaded my soul again, its dreary hands drawing the blinders on the chambers of my chest. it’s winter underneath my skin and the sun is in hiding. i can't see anything past the blackness. i do not know what exactly happened. one night, i was okay, smoking on my front porch. i must have left the door ajar on my way back and welcomed the coldness home.

 

ii. i waited too long for the day when my poetry would be less about death and more about love, when i could write songs again in the language of delight, when i could stay up all night playing sonatas instead of fantasizing about the afterlife. i waited until the clock unwound itself.

 

iii. the nights of my aching passed unspoken the way lilac breeze abandoned my days. i woke into mornings full of yesterday's leftover dreams. i bought overpriced cups of coffee from seven eleven and jogged around the city before the dawn settled, hoping to feel a little better. every sunrise, i tried to prove that the world still makes sense only to find myself hollow when the night fell.

 

iv. i stepped into the shower and talked myself out of murdering my body. i saw my reflection staring back at me �" far from the definition of wanted. there's a scream strangled in my throat, so i clawed it off me after i spent minutes in the hell of the kitchen table. i know i could never careen my way out of these rotting skeleton’s coat but it couldn't keep me from trying.

 

v. everything smells like dead roses and rifles smudged with blood. the woodsmoke in this place i call home is suffocating. there were seasons when i felt fine, when the way i opened my eyelids felt like unwrapping a present. there were days when even the caged birds sang me lullabies, when my existence resonated the aria of the snowfall and not a blizzard's screeching. there were nights when i could coax happiness back into my fingers as if it actually belonged there.

 

vi. but now, there are no glowing embers or flying sparks. it’s winter in my soul again, and time is ticking itself too slowly into spring, where the land isn't like this �" raw with all that isn't there and ripe with all the things that would never be.

 

vii. forgive me, beloved, but i’m crawling my way back into the dark, the desolate draft, the mantle of whiteness and static. when the day breaks, i pray that i will still be here. when the snow melts a lifetime later, may i not be left to drown in a dreamless sleep.when my poetry would be less about death and more about love, when i could write songs again in the language of delight, when i could stay up all night playing sonatas instead of fantasizing about the afterlife. i waited until the clock unwound itself.

 

iii. the nights of my aching passed unspoken the way lilac breeze abandoned my days. i woke into mornings full of yesterday's leftover dreams. i bought overpriced cups of coffee from seven eleven and jogged around the city before the dawn settled, hoping to feel a little better. every sunrise, i tried to prove that the world still makes sense only to find myself hollow when the night fell.

 

iv. i stepped into the shower and talked myself out of murdering my body. i saw my reflection staring back at me �" far from the definition of wanted. there's a scream strangled in my throat, so i clawed it off me after i spent minutes in the hell of the kitchen table. i know i could never careen my way out of these rotting skeleton’s coat but it couldn't keep me from trying.

 

v. everything smells like dead roses and rifles smudged with blood. the woodsmoke in this place i call home is suffocating. there were seasons when i felt fine, when the way i opened my eyelids felt like unwrapping a present. there were days when even the caged birds sang me lullabies, when my existence resonated the aria of the snowfall and not a blizzard's screeching. there were nights when i could coax happiness back into my fingers as if it actually belonged there.

 

vi. but now, there are no glowing embers or flying sparks. it’s winter in my soul again, and time is ticking itself too slowly into spring, where the land isn't like this �" raw with all that isn't there and ripe with all the things that would never be.

 

vii. forgive me, beloved, but i’m crawling my way back into the dark, the desolate draft, the mantle of whiteness and static. when the day breaks, i pray that i will still be here. when the snow melts a lifetime later, may i not be left to drown in a dreamless sleep.

Author's Note

Hello, you can check out more of my poems here: https://www.facebook.com/fransivanwrites/