before words became bruises,
before your hand was a weapon,
before my shirt lost its white,
and before tears were my food,
you were my father
and i was your son.
he freed his fingers from my hand
to paint his own van Gogh
on the side of another square
he felt was a better fit.
with a carnival balloon in hand
and paper banjos playing softly beside the river he walked home,
pausing only for a moment
to released the fictional helium hope
of ever finding his own huckleberry friend…
then quietly placed his love in the museum of his soul.
thickly layered and fragile
he sat in his safe space
framed by the things he’d become.
jealous for never taking chances
or challenging his truths
made of glue and antiseptic.
with the flowers quickly fading
and his parents now passed,
he listened for their whisper through the rain
just to have some small hope
he wasn’t alone.
wearing his favorite t-shirt
and a coquettish grin,
he played board games
with dice and peoples hearts
losing his turn at love…
on his final spin.
within the broken heart
is a voice without a sound,
birds without a song,
stained glass without light,
stars without the night,
healing without mistakes
and a life without love.
he hides himself away
in a corner where nobody can see
he never bleeds,
he never heals.
even his pen was too shy
to say the choler words he felt,
afraid they’d awaken his dormant stones of pain.
so the words remained trapped inside the timid ink
of immearsurable emotions unanswered,
never to be written.
with no thoughts or prayers
he packed up his stuff
and walked through the door of his own secret self,
turning back momentarily to watch
the leaves begin to fall on his bed.