My nails turned blue, an omen.
I have said it all. Black-holed my mouth.
Blacked-out. Erased you for a moment,
stunned dead. I killed many men this way.
Sunk my teeth, you know the rest of the story.
My hands are white. They are red. They are
my vice. I am bone cold, riddled with ice.
I am not nice. You should put me down finally.
I get myself alone. Wait for it to happen,
some man with a gun and vengeance to come
shoot me dead. I show everyone my cards
and wait for a threat. You are far too kind
to be my kind. My heart was always on my sleeve
but no one cared for better or worse about that.
Regardless you’ll reach for me any way you can, 
but I won’t let you touch me for a long time. 
I’m so cold I’d suck the air from you.
When I say what I mean it gets me in trouble,
so now I speak only in metaphor, in poems.
I’m done with living any other way. Give myself
up. I crave. There is no cure. This is terminal.
The images of a different life snow me in,
I can nearly make my own winter out of them.
I sit by a fire and do not throw myself into it.
It must be a blessing to never want to.
It must be a blessing to be so warm.