Unsweetened Snow Cones

Written on 9:13 PM by Unknown

This is the month that marks black leather boots and stalled car engines. In december its all too easy to get lost, get stranded. Darks nights and snowy streets make way for tragedy. I walked out from my cocoon and slathered cold air onto my cheeks to give me a little living color. Exothermic rouge. There was a porcelain tea cup in my glove box at all times, painted robin’s egg blue all over, except where there were chips and cracks from mistreatment. I swan dove into the snow and came out damp and nearly frozen. Little tea cup in my hand, snow filling it the way a mountain would. I thought to myself it looked like a hawaiian shaved ice cone, without the artificial cherry flavoring. Sifted through the frosted leaves for days, looking for a rock that was sharp enough. Dragged it across the bare bone of my forearm to coax out the last drops of blood, letting them fall into my teacup of snow. They flavored every flake and turned it crimson. It tasted just like a cherry snow cone. The kind you get at the circus. I stood feet forward and flat in the road for two months licking my dessert seductively, waiting for someone to come give me a few voltages of a jump. No one ever came. And that is the story of how I became a statue. 

Unsweetened Snow Cones
Unknown
This is the month that marks black leather boots and stalled car engines. In december its all too easy to get lost, get stranded. Darks nights and snowy streets make way for tragedy. I walked out from my cocoon and slathered cold air onto my cheeks to give me a little living color. Exothermic rouge. There was a porcelain tea cup in my glove box at all times, painted robin’s egg blue all over, except where there were chips and cracks from mistreatment. I swan dove into the snow and came out damp and nearly frozen. Little tea cup in my hand, snow filling it the way a mountain would. I thought to myself it looked like a hawaiian shaved ice cone, without the artificial cherry flavoring. Sifted through the frosted leaves for days, looking for a rock that was sharp enough. Dragged it across the bare bone of my forearm to coax out the last drops of blood, letting them fall into my teacup of snow. They flavored every flake and turned it crimson. It tasted just like a cherry snow cone. The kind you get at the circus. I stood feet forward and flat in the road for two months licking my dessert seductively, waiting for someone to come give me a few voltages of a jump. No one ever came. And that is the story of how I became a statue. 
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