The parts of me that hurt the worst want me to write something for them, but I can't. I don't know what to say. I'm lost in all this sadness, and so are they.

We may seem fine, even when the pain remains right there beneath our surface.

I'm pretty lost in becoming all this frost. Bitter, like Winter. Strung-out like a string of pearls.

I'm falling apart, one part after another. Falling down on the world like snow. Half of me is already on the ground, watching from below.

This poem has been called obscure. I refuse to believe that it is obscurer than pity, violence, or suffering. But being a poem, not a lifetime, it is more compressed.

Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide wide sea!
And never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony.