There is a coldness at my core
Just a feeling, nothing more
When I sink into my spine
Like a draft through open door

Even so, I’m doing fine
The coldness is just one small line
In my body full of other
Full of hustle, love, and brine

It takes some effort not to smother
Myself in quilts, like my mother
Would when I was young and weak
First one blanket, then another

If the earth belongs to meek
And if I can stay warm through next week
Then maybe meek will light a fire
And bold will turn the other cheek

As everyone has their desire
So do I, though not so dire
Not so epic, not so neat
Content with what I don’t require


A question for the lucky ones, full of heat:
Does a core by any other name still burn as sweet?