Inspired by NPR and my mother

I called him crying. I had never cried in front of him before, as it is not graceful. Yes, my mascara looks good smudged, but snot is not attractive.

He was biking across Portland.

I sat against my bed, the dark wooden mattress box jabbing into the center of my back. My spine was split by the corner of the wood, but my body was too exhausted to move.

While I listened to the wind whizz through the phone, I sobbed about my inadequacy. How I wasn’t smart enough, how no one would want me, how I was too dull for any college to want me.

Want me.

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Cold forces one to feel. Glinting snow shines so bright that it becomes impossible to ignore the potency of the night. In the cold feelings freeze before they have the chance to tumble away.

My fingers would have become frostbitten if I took them out of my pocket to lift a phone to my ear. My snot would have frozen if I entertained the notion of crying.

I don't cry any more.