All that has been done

I'm so cold.

I know I'm cold for a reason. I'm cold because I don't deserve to be warm.  I'm colder than I've ever been, and the winter seems like a furnace around me.

Each time a snowflake drifts down from the gray and lands on my bare, bloody skin, it sizzles and blisters me.

But I don't disturb the tranquility. I lie there, unmoving, unresponsive.

They seem so peaceful, those burning white flakes, silently covering every inch. I see one, and then two, and then five, and then five thousand.

They blanket me in silence.

I do not protest.

I must merit this fiery hell.

Soon enough, I will be covered in white. The winter will blanket my body and my blood and my sins, and nobody will be able to see me for the insignificant creature I must be.

I'll be hidden from all that has been done, and I pray that all that has been done will be hidden from me.