I remember being warm—

The memories ambush in a swarm;

The rosy days of childhood fun,

Seen in hues of love and sun.

I see my self without lines or pain,

Games where no one cares to gain;

Miniature hurts and grand desires,

Gay naïveté that never tires.

And of all, the warmest place:

In my mother’s strong embrace.

I remember being cold,

The days that froze my very soul.

I lived through a sheen of ice,

And no amount of heat sufficed

To melt or thaw me so I could feel;

My wounds were left, never to heal.

My self was formed and left to clot,

The pain ironed in and never forgot.

And coldest of all was my heart,

Held close and yet kept far apart.

I remember being numb,

When nothing changes and nothing comes.

I don’t feel sorrow, ire, or grief;

I don’t feel pleasure, calm, relief.

I think and touch, so must be real,

But my self is wrapped and tightly sealed.

One concession may be made:

I can cry; tear tracks are laid.

Yet of all, I feel the least

When the sobs finally cease.