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Sometimes I sit outside and just hope to whatever is above me in life that I get away. That I escape this, you, them. Everyone. By myself I am the ice in the winter slowly melting, and I'm afraid I may never freeze again. "This place smells of death and disease." Just wait for me in the car. Black eyes and bruises. Was I meant for this? Shaking in the middle of the night, screaming out, and dreaming nightmares even you couldn't handle. But we deal, and we get along with life. I'm frozen in November, hoping for December, but you're still by my side.