**TRIGGER WARNING: Self harm**

Hair clumped with snow, lips tinted blue, skin colder than death. Golden light reaches her through the trees, but her still heart says she isn’t welcome there. She built her own castle from ice blocks stolen from the rushing river. Adding berries, pine cones, and evergreen needles to stop the monochrome. What else was there to do in this wasteland? But ice warps everything: berries become drops of blood, pine cones fisted hands, evergreens a mirror. She’s tired of reliving that frost-bitten goodbye. But what else is there to do in this wasteland? Icicles form on her cheeks. They grow longer as she sits on her throne, staring at the walls. The blood. The fists. The sword held to her beloved’s throat. Golden lights never come near her castle during the day. Sometimes she thinks she sees them at night—through the walls, through the ice—but she’s never sure if they’re really there or if it’s just her memory playing out before her eyes. Again and again. The blood. The fists. The dagger held still at her side through fear. There’s nothing else to do in this wasteland. The icicles frozen to her cheeks are sharp. She breaks off one with a snap like breaking bones. She holds it like a knife, using the point to pry up her preserved skin. Her wrists are blue. She’s blue all over. She’s waiting for the blood to flow down her throne, like the blood in the walls, the blood on her hands. Maybe then she would be forgiven. Maybe then she could forgive herself. There’s nothing left to do but try. The blood. The crown fallen to the floor. The sword turning, aiming at her. Her wrists are gaping open now, like twin smiles, but still the blood won’t flow. It’s frozen in her veins.