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
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.