Cold.

Violent,
Force me into silence,
Death stares,
Ghastly stares,
Blank, cold eyes...
My greeting.
Their voices icy,
Their gestures frosty,
Dying of cold...
No warmth.
The sun does little but blind,
Does nothing to cut through the chill.
It's supposedly a warm day,
A hot day,
But I'm cold and getting colder still.

My blood boils,
My heart aches,
But they fail to warm me,
My senses heighten,
My nostrils flair,
But they do little to warn me.
Fat.
Ugly.
Slut.
Whore.
Their whispers seem louder than screams.
'What's she wearing?'
'What's she doing?'
Their whispers cut worse than knives.

But I have my own sun,
Something else to keep me warm...
The calm flow of the ink from my pen.
It keeps me safe,
Blocks them out,
And with my pen,
I am happy.