I’m cold—
a chill that sinks beneath my skin,
a winter whisper crawling in,
no heater humming anywhere,
just frozen air, just empty care.
They laugh and say they’re warm tonight,
wrapped in comfort, glowing bright,
telling me how good it feels—
while I count shivers like unpaid bills.
My blanket’s thin, my breath is gray,
the hours freeze and slip away.
The space heater wheezes, barely alive,
I’m trying my hardest just to survive.
They brag of warmth they get to share,
but never offer—never dare.
Their pride cuts sharp in the icy air,
a warmth they flaunt, a warmth unfair.
So I whisper softly, trembling there:
“I’m cold… why won’t anyone care?”
And in the dark, the silence grows,
as frost blooms quiet on my clothes.
Still shivering, small, and unaware
of when—if ever—
warmth
will care.