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 hoped the lonely tears that fell down his cheeks
were like the raindrops that fall down from the sky …
for only a little while.
that hover over the rocks and stones
in front of him
lead him with the wicked echos of regret
that his life had only become
his plan b.
the boy in the window
carving a broken heart in his breath,
realized the condensation dripping down
was like watching his tears…
die on his lips.
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.
the pile of faded blue t-shirts
that sit silent in the corner of an empty room
still have the scented memories
of his wasted kisses, lost loves,
and the absent knowing
of how to feel something for someone.
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.
the duel between his heart and mind
became a dance in rhythmic measure
of opening and closing,
each inflicting strict penalties on him
of reward and punishment
as conditions for love.
sitting in his chair of discouragement
weaving individual threads of pain,
he created a blanket of
sadness crawling across the floor.
he continued to put himself in the
way of his own beauty.