winter is savage, but so are we: Dearest,
Our bodies may not be meant for Wild Hunts and blood carnivals. We may never be able to hold poison under our tongues, gorge ourselves on pomegranate seeds with impunity, or tattoo our skin with spells and curses.
We may be swallowed by nuclear winters that will splinter our bones, radiations spreading in our veins as cold as ice.
What will become of our flesh, love, when it changes and transmutes? What shall become of us, glass-like and glowing green in the night, I do not know. But there is clarity in only one thing: