She does not envy the heat that radiates from their cores through their pores, onto their skin. She's always prided herself on her ability to feel cold at the tips of her hair as her heartbeat stills. Her core radiates the cold from the night air after another door was slammed shut in her face. She banged hard on the wood until her hands were raw, ignoring the sting of the wind slapping her skin within the storm of her mind. The winds have never been kind. They'd move fast making sure they cast the last of any memory of a happier time like grandma's water recipe with lemon and lime. The only water there is now is the tsunami of her thoughts crashing loudly against her brain, driving her insane. She is now reliant on music to make them silent for a moment to sneak a peek at the building so see if anyone has opened. But the door remains shut. She bangs harder the splinters cut deeper but even the window panes remain sealed. ` She can wail, scream, panic, repeat Her heart can shatter again and again Into smithereens, But her cries fall upon deaf ears There is no room for her… Her and her messiness. And the doors shall remain shut. She will remain broken And alone And cold Outside.