In the dawn of an ice streaked morning, I am predisposed to the frosty touch of father winter. It’s unfair that the most prevalent example of poverty in my life, obvious with my lack of coat and unpatched jeans, would cripple me so much when I need life’s karma the most. I simply brace through it.
     I take in a sharp and pain ridden lungful of frigid air and breathe out a foggy mist. While I watch the smoke lilt and dance up into the air, soon to coalesce with the clouds, a feeling of cold and morose fingers forcefully crawl up my thighs, carresses my collarbone, and kiss the top of my nose. Somehow, It’s never bothered me. Looking up at the streaks of golden sunlight woven into the billowing clouds, my flock of merry misfits come and join me behind the red brick wall of our school building. They talk with wispy creatures flowing out of their mouths and there seems to be a larger gathering of human oddities than usual.
     Of course there would be, the school officials can’t tell whether the white mass emitted from your mouth is condensed water or a ball of smoke.
     There are a lot of or’s around here.
     Smoke or drink
     Pleasure or a chance in life
     Stay or leave
     I see a bird the color of mud soar through the sky, weave around the deflated people, and finally land in front of me. It struts about and puffs out its burnt orange chest while it looks for various chunks of rotten food and handouts. It reminds me of myself. Prancing about with no direction and searching for a life source; anything to help me live. The bird moves towards a pile of crumbs and pecks at it for awhile before flying up onto the bench next to me.
     Its eyes are pleading, praying I find the decency in my heart to give it something, but the drugs have kicked in by now which caused me to consume everything edible in my possession. I murmur, “I have nothing.” and once I do the bird loses the vulnerable glimmer in its eyes and seems to shrug its shoulders before it hops down onto the ground.
I decide to name the bird Jane after my mother; the two are very similar.
     Both of them flew away.
     Jane begins to lift her wings and gives a single hop which launches herself into the sky. I can’t help but wonder where she might’ve gone. Where will I go? My endless cycle of eating, sleeping, and working for drug money completes the final chain in the weight that holds me to this section of hell. For reasons unknown, I still believe someone can pull me out of my stasis and into a world of being unproductive and useless, but the need to cover my pain and sorrows inflicted onto me by life overcome the want of seeking asylum from the cold.
I conclude that my weak arms are no match to forcibly pull apart chains. I’m so close to shelter yet I cannot take a step, so the cycle must continue.
     I bring the cylinder of paper to my lips and take a breath.