under covers

It is February

all the time; you are

coming round the back

Your boots chip the ice on the driveway;

the scream of the wrought iron stairs.

I am thirteen years old and hold my breath.

Snow falls inside of you.

Your face is chapped from the wind.

Living chapped made you

a monster,

peeling skin,

or maybe my skin is what’s rotting you.

You can’t stop

coming for it.

And I am always a child about to be

set on fire.

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