By Liza Rosen
Late at night, I like to get my bones cold. When it's raining and dark, you can feel it shake your muscles and tense your joints up. I stay like that, standing on my front porch and shivering, lavendering my extremities and breathing. There are only a few nights a year when it rains this heavy. I like feeling my body trying to electrify itself back to warmth, and I have a special affinity for knowing that I won't allow it. I’m clad in nothing more than tattered lingerie, which is lacy and appetizing, icy near the tips. It doesn't rain like this too often, only a few times a year and it rains heavy.
You can’t see much––it’s foggy, too––but there are Christmas lights up. My favorites have always been the snowflake ones, especially because it doesn’t snow here. It only rains, and for that I am grateful.
The air is like pine. Woodsy and potent, domineering.
The lights that boast themselves through bulletproof windows are all turned off. My neighbors are all asleep, I’m sure. They probably had a stellar night playing family board games and watching movies and cooking pasta, whatever families do. My parents are irrevocably in slumber, too, and I should be as well. I just can’t sleep when the weather gets like this.
I have been feeling sad lately. Most of us say “it’s getting bad again”, and the rest of us understand that the depression comes back when it gets cold. I have a friend who has the same thing I do, but she stays in when it gets cold. I can never understand why she would. This is my favorite time of the year.
Mostly because my parents are fiends for healthcare, I had to go to the hospital for hypothermia last month. It was white and room temperature and an unenjoyable experience altogether. I got blankets and shots and evaluations and warm again and I came home. My parents made me promise to deal with my “affliction” more healthily, to which I responded that I would.
Involving an inconsiderately strewn together chain of events, today I turn seventeen. I don’t really feel like it. The rain falls like confetti. I want to be cold elsewhere.
Now I am back on my front porch, cold and drenched and blind. Things are getting bad again and I feel cold everywhere. The rain falls like confetti. I am consumed. Birthdays always make me anxious. I don’t like when people look at me or praise me for things over which I am powerless. I don’t like when people embrace me or coddle me in blankets or new clothing. I want to be left alone. I want to feel cold.
Ice penetrates my pores, I feel the temperature descend into freezing. My feet are placed starkly, unnerving, lavendering in the tips. The roots in my legs plant themselves into the ground, eager to grow trees sickly and naked. I can’t feel it. Ardently, feverishly, girlishly, wantingly, I allow myself to collapse into the glacial arms of hypothermia. Round two.
The confetti falls harder.


  1. okay but this is actually so incredible. your writing has a certain voice, liza. love this

  2. Your writing is so amazing, I'm in awe.