Little sister,
tell me how it feels
to dash across the playground,
fiery pigtails licking your milky neck,
spring breezes surging you forward.
Share with me, my princess ingénue,
how blissful it is to
sport a loopy grin, oblivious
to the boo-boos on your knees.
They never offered you
suicide tickets, and you
were the only one strong enough
to snatch them away from me
melting them in the rain.

Little sister,
why is their invisible magic
brimming in your veins?
You are crystal-clear water —
when they dump a trashcan of scary toxins
into you,
the poisons subside, and you are
pure again.

Little sister,
your bob will grow and grow,
and the wind will thrust you backward.
I'm afraid to say
magic doesn't last forever-
it withers as you age.