She is scattered across the snowfall
like Koolaid spilled on kitchen tile,
expanding and absorbing.
I notice her hands -
although bruising and stained
still delicate and feminine.
Parts of us remain unchanged,
parts of us never the same.
It takes hours to break the frozen ground open
deep enough for the body to be placed inside.
I am gentle even though she is unfeeling.
I am strong even though there is no one to see.
I am speaking though there's no one to listen.
Constant death is driving me mad.
Is survival worth anything?
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