Freezing

Counting. The treads. The scuff marks that lead to empty closets. Warm coats with no one in them. Long scarves around her limp neck. The math in her thighs subtracting. From.

Teasing her time machine. As she colors the doors. The years invade. Too content to let us live. Killing her gods to let the demons live. Waiting on the doctor to name the disease. So that she can blame it.

All my victims. Like rose petals on the wind. All my years imagining. How cold it is.