Something is broken. And something hides out, cold, in thicket brush shadowed by the thundering asphalt, tugging at its sleeves while marveling of how the stars create such snowy, clear cold that touches their nose, their toetips, and their still forming *******.
And yet, awake. They feel something warm-- click, slip, whip and crackle at the touch-- sparkle, like a human heart, nestled between gasps and shouts of their mother in a rage. There is a moon tonight, and her fury does nothing but deepen the chill of the skin of their bare wrists against the weeds.
And something is broken. And something wishes to recreate its sparkling whiteness with warm sinews, blood-- a new heart, perhaps. Tiny fingers curled inside their barely warming winter coat, they head for the house, where the hearth is slightly less freezing.