The girl with the ice cube face.
There’s only the surface.
The tip of the iceberg,
And it’s white and cold.

She’s going to a funeral
Lips pulled down,
Unconsciously
She’s walking to her car.

A flicker across her glass,
A snowflake melting.
There’s something on the radio,
A trigger of another life.

The frozen ice is back.
Only a glimmer through
What should be clear,
Too thick, too white.

A crack against the white,
She can’t break.
Frozen over too often,
A tendril of thawed red.

A call, a word,
The glass shatters.
She fumbles with the pieces,
Incoherent, mixed with red.

This time she can’t freeze.
Too much, too much,
Life smeared across
The broken ice cube.

Accident is the word.
Suicide is the whisper.
Streams down flesh,
Water flows too quickly.

Don’t riddle with coulds.
With the bruise of injustice,
Her heart stopped beating,
Long ago.

Published in Escapism