Thirteen and Rotten

The kid in the aisle had the look of a thief,

shaking and small with a desperate grief.

The strawberry scent was a thick, sugary cloud,

making the silence feel sticky and loud.

I thought of the locket I shoved in the clay,

the silver too heavy to carry away.

I scrubbed at my cuticles, raw and blood-red,

but the dirt stayed alive in the back of my head.