Poem Number 1932

Once I was cold. I came out of the cold, harsh winter, winter upon my pale skin
To a wave of buttery warmth, still a little cold in me, prickly feeling inside, desolate,
Dry, fingers, thumbs, blue, yet the outside is warm. The meat is not cooked inside, just the skin and bone
Clanking, creaking grabbing sound, old rocking chair by the fire, move the joints
Spread out the fingers, rub the sore, painful parts of my skin, try to absorb the warmth
You'd think I wouldn't be scared, wouldn't you?
By Jenni, 15.
WEirdo