frigid (bitch): a small crown

i.

It begins like this:

We go in circles at the ice rink, racing — I slip

away, elusion on the scratched surface, blades

shredding ice into a

stop.

He says I'm

the coldest bitch he's ever met — yeah, sure,

maybe I am. He reaches for my shirt; I don't

melt at his touch, rigor mortis, cadaverous cold.

I have never wanted this.

Don't touch me.

Turns out love isn't enough when a man wants

more. He cries at me for his unlost virginity

and me, I'm a frigid bitch.

ii.

Me, I'm frigid, bitch.

Simply, icebergs don't

need boyfriends. They think it sad, but I am

not the one ashamed to be alone. I drift free

against the current; those following the flow

need only stay out of my way, lest relation-

ships be sunk. They come for me anyway,

I find myself object

of someone else's fantasy,

manic pixie ice queen. I say ace, they hear

challenge on their quest to 500 days of summer.

I know belief like Cassandra:

they do not accept

what they do not understand. I keep going.

iii.

What they do not understand is I keep going

because I can give myself no other choice:

because queer depression is a statistic,

because one percent is still worth fighting for,

and if a glacier can be a rock to hold onto, then I

must.

I steel myself into ice wall, a shield

for this community, so you may remain snow soft.

Because ice floes can fracture in pressure — but

I am not broken, I am not alone. Neither are you.

I will be here to protect you.

This too is a kind of love,

and I won't let them say it's not good enough.

It begins like this.