Cold

(This is a short poem-kinda-thing that I wrote about a vampire. It’s in the same world of “Silence” but with a different character.)

It is hard to remember a time when I did not feel cold.

Perhaps I should be used to it after so so many years
But after the transformation
There was never a time when I didn’t hate being so cold. 

Sometimes it rages like a blizzard 
While other times I freeze in empty stillness 
Or am buried deep in snow. 

And no one else seems to feel it. 

I’m drowning. 
I’m suffocating. 
And yet 
I still live in this eternal winter.

The summer sun would tease me
Hurl it’s flaming jibes. 
And fire is a friend I will never completely trust. 

But no warmth is sweeter.
No warmth brings such joy
A sickening addiction that plagues my smile: 
The blood of the living 
Can briefly bring comfort to the cold. 

How it satisfies your hunger. 
How it keeps you sane and strong. 
And how for even a moment
The heat will fill your body. 

As if for even a fleeting second,
You start to believe you’re normal again. 

But those 
Are the thoughts of a fool. 

For the cold 

Oh, the cold. 

The cold consumes me. 
No feeling is more empty than that of undead ice. 
This putrid permafrost prison of a person. This soulless asylum of a vessel.  

I’m sick of it. 

And yet I stay. 

And yet 

I freeze. 

Perhaps hell is not so bad if the shackles are of flames.