31st

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It’s the 31st, 
a few hours before the new year rings in.

I am driving 
amid the decorations, 
midst the slow descent of dew and fog, 
as horns scream, 
as blobs of light streak past me.

Cold air cuts through, 
finding its way between my fingers and jacket, 
numbing my hands and face, 
numbing my heart that only wants to believe 
that I am worthy of love, even when I make mistakes.

Even when I am not impressive. 
Even when I take up space quietly. 
Even when every fibre in me 
argues the opposite.

I am worthy of being here, right?
I am deserving of kindnes,s right?
I am deserving of warmth... right?

The wind runs through my hair, 
loosens it. 
I move through roundabouts, 
corners, familiar lanes, 
thinking only to myself.

I love winters
for all their beauty 
and for this feeling.
For my little heart 
working its hardest to keep me warm 
while the world presses cold against it. 
It endures, even when the odds feel heavy.

And still, 
the warmth stays inside me.
A.V 

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