outside: wet cold on my feet, wavering around me, seeping into skin, shrinking what is firm and proud. Not like yesterday.
words: are thick today, disgruntled in rising, darkened by the possibility of failure. Friday was better.
my hair: tries to escape, a wild hare tied to a leash of fine iron.
fingers: don't, didn't ever belong to me, hardened, naked, to cold to touch themselves.
Papers: scream for milk

slow, slipping toward it, whether you like it or not

my handwriting gets smaller and smallest as does my voice in chances of disagreement.
but not today;
or tomorrow: wet cold can't steal away what's mine, a gentle reassurance that it's warm soon,
and the pages will turn, the switch is flipped.