I feel like there is ice where my heart should be.
And I have told you this. Have told you that the ice hurts me, that it feels empty and demanding all at once. You reply, "Do not worry. You are fire, you'll melt through it." But I'm not melting through. I'm not melting through it fast enough and it's hurting me. I try, again, to confess this to you, and you reply: "It will melt."
I feel like there's ice where my heart should be.
And for some, this feeling of being frozen at your core is like a welcome release. Like the end of intense turmoil, like the sweet release of deathly cold fingers pulling back to leave you alone. But for me it is empty. You tell me that it can't be making me more empty, if it's replacing something else inside of me, and I tell you you're wrong, and then I bite my fiery tongue from any further scathing remarks because you are water, and you're soft and delicate, and I cannot allow you to be hurt by my hands.
I feel like there's ice where my heart should be.
And it isn't melting. And you aren't getting it. And your comfort only makes me feel dimmer. I shrink away from your touch because it's hurting me, and I'm burning up, and anyone who can't match my heat feels like ice now, too.
I feel like there's ice where you should be.
I see you walking hand in hand with snowflakes and frozen lakes and all I can do is hurt. And then smile, in my crooked sort of way. Because of course water would find ice. Of course you would find him. Of course you would place the ice in my chest and then tell me, "Sweetheart, it shouldn't hurt you." Because you don't get me. You don't understand why the ice that helps you soothe your burns makes me shrink away in terror. You are water, and you don't understand fire, and I'm inexplicably drawn to my own destruction but now you're searching to get your life back, and I'm holding you up.
I feel like there's ice where you should be.
Because you've grown cold. I used to be able to make you tremble and send ripples through you with every breath, and now you are smooth glass, and you feel fake. You feel temporary. I hope you know that ice is temporary, too. I hope you know that you are ever-changing, and I am all-consuming.
I feel like there's fire where my brain should be.
Ice is still in my chest, but what self-respecting flame would bow to that when their flames reach so high? Watch me, if I let this feeling overtake me enough, I can change my color to match you. Green, or was it blue? It doesn't matter; I'll find something to cling onto and it will change me, briefly. Because I am fire. Because I am reactive. Because I will always be burning, somewhere. And I will become smoke, you will evaporate.
He will melt.