It wasn’t a harsh wind like one from a Northwoods winter night

But a fear-laden, icy attempt to freeze her own discomfort

She plays hide-and-seek with her bitchiness finding it in those

Convenient times when faced with reality of her past actions

I see her; she cowers at the thought of attempted healing

I know her; she cowers at the thought of contrition

I’ve been there; that land of self pity

It is rocky, desolate— no good can take seed and grow

Feigning comfort, she keeps herself wrapped

In a fluffy blanket of deception inviting in her delusions

And only those that will validate them

With her self-loathing she deceives

Not others as is her intention

Only herself

She is me, before I soaked in the warmth of my flawed life

That now brims with love

Tricia Schwaba, April 2026