He

There are bruises on your knuckles

where you can never heal, you sweet sweet boy.

You grasp his collar like lifeline, memorize

the stitching with your palms.

He never says 'thank you',

looks at you with bright bright eyes,

calls you home, calls you brother.

'I'm sorry', you tell him with all the words

you've kept hidden, 'I love you'.

You haven't been this scared since the tenth grade and his dad thought

about moving them away from this town

full of shadows and you you you

you sweet sweet boy, you smell his skin

and it smells like yours, and you can

no longer distinguish love for her and

love for him, but this is not a tragedy.

This has never been a tragedy, we walk

a fine line between anger and apathy and

he would never lie about something

as important as this.

Your dreams, have you thought about closing your eyes and forgetting? Wake up.

His tears mean he hasn't mastered

forgetting.

He,

he knows your name

like the back of his hand.

He,

it fits comfortable in the back of his throat.

Blood, rusted on the back

of a swing set, your head is dizzy from

the sights and sounds, you want to press

your lips to his ear and let him know everything.

 

Tell him now, write your own ending

and exhale, exhale, breathe out.

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