News Item: Cold kills the poor in Brazil’s richest city
June 30, 2016*

Cold creeps again, pale as Death
Her long arms emaciated,
Bloodless.

Her sharp fingernails,
Dripping with dirt
Marking my skin, her territory.

My skin - a stranger’s skin
My blood, she draws
No blood. No longer mine.

“You are mine,” her whisper, cold.
Her eyes of death,
Piercing my soul

A single breath
I keep hidden under
My blanket, stripping me

Homeless.
“The security officers did it.” local media accused.
But I am homeless. Stripped.

“Please. Bring my blanket back first.
Please.
It's cold in here."