When I was younger, my mother used to tell me a poem in winter, about a daughter that tore herself in the night, yet healed by the morning. I always hated it but never quite understood why, and with it, I began to dread the awaiting cold months. But as I grew, I finally began to understand my sorrow. As much as I related to the girl, to her pain, I envied her for her ability to heal. I never quite manage to heal, no matter how many mornings pass by. The days end, the mornings go, and the evening lingers under my fingertips but never long enough for it to be of any significance. By the time the wounds start closing I tear them open once again, blood oozing out from the tiniest of scars.
I hate the guilt that comes with having these scars, with these feelings. I shouldn't be feeling like this for her. The guilt flows through my veins, seeping out with every new tore on my body. I prayed to everything I knew to get me rid of this guilt. God told me he doesn't care if I am guilty, for he made me this way. But I care, I care if I am guilty. God was silent, I was silent, everything was silent. The world was covered in a thick layer of snow, so quiet, so lonely, so forgiving. I lay down hoping to be forgotten if only for a second. But the snow couldn't, for no matter how forgiving it was, it couldn't forget. It will never forget the dead body of a once loved, buried deep under its white layer of loneliness. Washed away from her guilt, silenced by the beauty untold, untouchable, unreachable.
She lay there dead for a couple of weeks before I began to realize the gravity of our situation. I laid back down next to her, fearing if I left I'd once again be ripped open, only this time I'd finally be found unsightly. I was afraid of this for I knew she'd know, I knew I'd find what I've been fearing to know. I hate knowing, I hate feeling that they know. I hate feeling. Feeling anything deranges me, to be seen feeling anything strips me naked. I don't know what's gonna come out of me if I let myself feel anything. No matter what, it has to be perfect in every way, to make up for the fact that it was created out of me. I wanted to be perfect so desperately. I wasn't, but I knew I could be. If only I tried hard enough, one day I could be someone.
Being anyone would be better than the empty shell I was that night, laying on the snow next to the body of a daughter who swore she managed to heal by the morning yet every night lay dead, silenced by the world. She threw her sadness into the snow but by the rise of the sun, she was still left with the snow. So she tried to bury her sadness under the layers, hoping to be forgiven for feeling. But by the time the sun set she was still left with her hands, now covered in white.
She begged me to leave, to run away. But my sadness lives where her does. We are destined to stay there forever, or until the snow melts and reveals our guilty bodies once again. By that time we'll become the flesh maggots adore, our skin itching with the love of forgiveness. Only then can our crimes truly be forgotten.
She cried, her tears falling on my palms. I had the urge to ask her if she was alright, but I was afraid I already knew the answer. I wished to kiss her tears away, drowning in the eyes they came from. Were they there for she knew her suffering was over? Or because she knew mine would never end? She kissed my hand. A promise. Of what I didn't know, perhaps she only wished to show she cared. Her gentleness was suspicious, for I didn't deserve it. Not after covering her, burying her guilty body in my own sorrow.
Flowers grew from her rotting body as winter turned to spring, burying her love under soil. The snow leaving but her soul stuck, now under dirt, for eternity. She told me not to engage with her, for she was better as a concept. But I couldn't, for I have not stopped loving her, nor were we forgiven yet. Even as the snow forgave and forgotten, humanity did not. We were still guilty, our corpses only revealing the truth further.
I told her I loved her, for she was love. A love so untouchable, so unforgivable. A love that was never to be spoken. Laying there I wished to decompose with her, for I knew I would never see her again. Her suffering ended yet mine still remained. I selfishly wished she had taken mine with her but I knew it wasn't her's to bare, the gentle indifference our love had to the world.
By the time summer came, her body had been long gone. Only a skeleton of what could have been remained. How terrible it is, to love someone death can touch. How frightening, an unhealable love of two unlovable, banished by humanity. The blood is drying under my fingernails, which one of us it belongs to I don't know. I lay there, still wishing that one morning the sadness would fossilize.
When autumn arrived, she made me participate in her madness, for I couldn't help but retrace her steps, her thoughts, her feelings. At last, I saw how it all led to me. At that moment she made death sound so glorious, pressed skin to skin, bone to bone. Our love buried no matter if the snow melted or not. I watched as leaves fell onto her open scars. Nights ended, mornings passed, and yet they didn't heal. They never would, not anymore. There was no skin to scar and yet I knew the wounds still remained.
As the first snowflakes fell, my body lay motionless, dirt digging into my flesh. By that time I finally understood the core of it. She wanted to save me from what I've perfectly known. I've known it for years but always fought against the knowledge. She wanted to save me from myself. She feared I'd end up like her, sinking into the silence of the snow till my flesh was no more and only the guilt soaked bones remained.
So I tore myself, one last time. But it healed by the morning. I tried to beg the snow for forgiveness, but it doesn't know how to. For it has forgotten about my guilt with the death of my guilty loved. So I once more laid there in the snow, the body of a once loved. I had laid there dead for a couple of weeks before she had begun to realize the gravity of our situation. I begged her to leave, to run away. But her sadness lives where mine does. So I kissed her hand, as a promise. A promise I knew I could never keep, because, by the time winter turned to spring, flowers had already bloomed from my rotting body, burying our love under soil.