I am made of ice
When I say this please know me. Know that it has taken months. Believe me.
They’ve noticed.
Another student house to fill with snow and boxes. One more fight to pick.
I am no longer phased by damp. Or mould. Or unexpected calls from the landlord.
They’ve noticed now.
How my fingers trace tendrils of icing along new window sills. My palms grow numb and
cool in every snap of sunlight. I sink our breath into the depths of winter. I conjure rink-like
rugs with each ghostly step. I see through my hands. I am so replaceable.
I’ve learnt to peel back my eyes. They have been encased with frosty webs. Don’t know how
long for. When they’ll melt away. One year more slept away from us. I make scarves and
bobble hats my sanctuary. I’ve finally found myself snuggled into the groove of this room.
Still haven’t worked out the boiler. But I promise I will.
I promise I am made of ice. I promise I couldn’t make it up if I tried. I promise I’ll leave
when I’m told.
Once I’ve shot out crisp new bones. I will still have one fungus lung. My chest still fizzles
like rocks tossed to the roof of a glassy brook. I can’t stay warm for long. Can’t wheeze like I
used to.
Peat rummages my breath in another earthy December. This mud I pull is dull and rimy.
But it can’t get to my nails. Not at night. Not when words are due.
I’ve stopped feeling lonely in the dark. I go to the park and have another blether with the
trees. Hazel, birch, chestnut. Circling around empty pebble dash flats. Too many stars lie still.
They engulf me. They light hollow forests. I am golden rot.Their sap entwines my own in
bitter static. I try to leave. I can’t.
I’ve been here too long.
Soon, l will become a glacier. I’ve marked it in my calendar. I will glide slowly, taper out.
Airy, old, and drifting until I am closest to my core. I bite into snow. This blizzard. Melt
away and fail to save the polar bear. I imagine my neck, an icicle, glowing with a fiery chill.
Feeling better soon. The crunch of infection will wrinkle the watery threads in my face.
Unsew me. Please know me.
I am made of ice.
Molly Knox is a Music student at Durham University. Her poetry has been recently nominated for the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net. Their work has been featured in The Braag, The Gentian, and Outlander Zine.
Twitter: @MollyKMoon28
Instagram: @mollymoon28_
For Now
It’s nice being giddy and not manic.
I can shop now, ride trams.
Death Stranding has just been released, and my flatmate keeps banging on about it. I bought her some sort of special edition. I know nothing about games. The bright colours and movement make me feel sick. I fork out forty quid, even though I’ve just been sacked for having too much time off and I’m on Universal Credit now. I’ve been saving for months to make this a special Christmas.
The city is washed in lights, hung above my head, in a tacky glow. Wafts of cinnamon and clove, expensive marshmallows. Little blobs of snow frost my cheeks. Plastic snow signs, smug santas, couples iceskating outside of time.
The stars are shy, blushing pale yellow beams. I have a little flashback, but it’s not a bad one. I remember hanging up baubles on the hospital Christmas tree, only for them to be crushed the next morning.
I call my mum and she answers. I tell her Merry Christmas. She says I’m stupid, says she’s gonna see me in a week, what’s the point in saying it now? I can’t say I love you, because I’m not sure if I mean it yet, I think.
I wonder if my parents feel the same.
*
I look back at my most vulnerable, unlikeable moments and I cringe. It’s easy to become that forever. Never face change or move on.
There will always be a small part of that in me, resting on my ribcage. But I can choose to be more as a slow becoming of something, if not better, something else, at least. I can choose the quiet joy of survival even if I can never be happy again.
I close my eyes and shiver in my too-tight coat. I fasten the buttons.
Instead of a flashback, this time I flash forward.
Blossoms. Boob tubes. Spring. No longer feeling like a ball of air. Googling ‘serendipity’ every time I feel it. Sun cream. Sunsets. Squinting. Seasons I will live to see. I will live. I’ll live… I will. I’ll make it. I promise. I think.
Originally published as ‘Type I’ with Isele Magazine, 2021.
Kayleigh Jayshree is a poet based in the East Midlands. They have been published with Fawn Press and nominated for a Pushcart Prize. They have type one bipolar. They recently graduated with a distinction in Creative Writing.