The cold eats at my fingers

 The frostbite sore lingers  

The warm stings the numb  

To dwell on it is dumb  

But we can’t forget   

Death is done and set  

So I’ll lay on my bed   

And rest my beaten living head

This is about a classmate who recently died and the shame that after the obvious sadness, jealousy came(“beaten living head”). I wrote this in winter in a classroom, it was the most personal and raw thing I have ever wrote around people that probably see me as unfeeling because, as I say in the poem, I’ve been numb for a while, but not while writing this(“the frostbite sore lingers”).