I shudder so hard to rid myself of
the creeping sensation of cold.
It is alright, I tell my fraught body,
You are warm now,
but the shuddering still persists;
goosebumps rise on my flesh.
You’re not cold, I insist,
You are alive, I think;
there’s breath
that’s left,
forcing its way
from lungs
to chest
out into the warm air;
That’s yours,
I try to reassure
my skin,
but it is still trembling,
cause I possess
a rare,
terrible talent for
living while dead