With Lime

I am not cold.
I will continue to repeat this mantra,
As chill bumps raise against pale skin,
As my nipples harden,
Tiny hairs stand up against inspiration and wind.
I do melt quite often,
Dripping at times,
Watering the deadness of the barren,
shrinking, unrecognizable plants beneath me.
They have lost to winter,
As I walk on concrete toward letters
that may never come.
I do not overheat.
Sweating across the frosted glass,
Forgotten on a patio of lies by someone
who was once thirsting for anything sweet.
Company, noise, now alone.
Lemonade, tea with lime.
I grew-up too afraid of being angry.
Pretty southern girls eat grits,
Do not bare their teeth.
It takes us so much longer to learn
to fight for ourselves.
I cover myself in every season,
There will be no silence in the protection
of clothes.
And I am not cold.
Keep repeating.