Twigs

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The one girl who runs faster than me smokes twigs she collects from the playground:

this way, my mom can’t smell the smoke. Do the ones that have buds on ‘em, she says.

It’ll get you high faster.

Two men.

Fat. Drunk.

White. Old.

Hey, girls. Come on, don’t run. Don’t run from us.

We’ll catch you, wait ‘til we get ya. Ha ha.

I can’t stop myself from looking back.

There are girls tossed into ravines and stuffed under bushes.

Where to hide, where to hide as I run past the other girl, past the swing sets,

the playhouse where the older kids pee when they can’t hold it.