I am Confessional

I look like the snow
in early February,
a composed, but wild dust still.

I plan to scatter,
to appear as tender petals
strewn from an unwanted vase,

but I nip at chin and scrape at nose.

I am alone.

How I want, want, want,
in the mornings,

a little bit of light,

but the sky colors dance from my window,
and cocoon their pretty heads.

It used to be enough
to eat chocolate before breakfast,
and pretend of my sweetness,

but I am confessional.

Brutal and barefoot,
I leave the coldness of my house
to peel the world beneath me.

I can terrify,
ignite with electricity,
and roar down your street,

or simply shrink
into terrible shadow.

I collect and smooth the snow,
take it as my blanket,
because I know,
today,
there can be no sun.