I cut so many snowflakes into paper.
I think it’s because they’re so short-lived and fragile.
Upon touching my fingers they melt,
Much like scenarios all around me.
The people in my life melt too–
My father, my friends, my ex lover.
It’s because my blood is on fire and I live…
Down South in the Florida pollution.
No snowflakes fall on my porch.
So I make them come to life.
They’re born from old scissors
And copy paper influencing young minds.
I make them when things get pale.
I make them when I cough uncontrollably.
They melt when my dad is in jail,
When his dreams melt away.
This is reality and snowflakes don’t fall in Florida no matter how many times the water heater breaks.
