I consider myself to be a glacier,
moving inch by arctic inch and
breaking apart invisibly,
always in a slow retreat.
I’m an avalanche when moments don’t matter,
but packed ice when they do,
sealed tight for fear of shattering,
wearing my white mourning garb for
the crevasses that still
old scars that erode me anew.
piece by icy piece,
because I don’t know how to take.