cold winds

I turn around

no longer six years old

with bubble gum

stuck in my hair

or your pigtail

so tightly twisted

around my hair brush

that I weep a million stars

our childhood

blunt cut

each shovel of dirt

takes you further away

I bury myself

from the sun

in fear

I may find myself alive

midnight

is when you come,

braid my hair,

and we are children