From the height of a swing set
A boy of 9 With dark hair and Ran out red cheeks Looks down without thinking Hollows his tongue Pools his DNA And fires his fermented sweetness On a so-called friend below He spits. On me. And though aimed at my head the wet inconsequential missal ultimately shattered my heart Years later when I am told by another that by Water sports he means he wants to pee on me i sprout forth blooms of wallflower so far down my spine that Mary Lennox herself could not find the key to unlock it Of course, not long after To the starting block of my own own Mark Spitzery I look down without thinking and Relieve myself Onto a naked ski mask Too afraid to reveal the face of a child who wanted to whisper the dreams of butterflies More than he wanted to see the color of his playmate’s blood You told him he was wrong And I told myself I was right to abuse him for it
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AuthorQueer. he/him. Good witch. Archives
October 2022
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