Surely, you are not the first
Boy
To demand respect

In a household of women
You claim to represent

We listen when you make us,
And if you wish, we cry

But snicker when you fall
And smile ‘cause we lie:

At night, when no one’s watching,
Our hands unveil,

No stopping.

And once intwined, we share the
Secret
We’ve known for quite some time

That poor old fool
As if the strings
Were his to pull.

I have suffered more than you have thought, more than you have cried, more than you have fallen upon yourself in the midst of everything else.
If I could have brought on to her the cuts and bruises and salty wounds that I myself facilitated, that she herself on more than many occasions had brought upon, I would have. In that moment. But that moment passed quickly, like a nightmare after sleep. And good, then, that it did. Because that was not me running the show.

I’ve known this person before, seen them in the shadows of my imagination. That is the person who creates many things inside my little mind when the moon is high and I am awake; when there is nothing left for me but to stare into darkness, darkness comes from them. My shadow gives me very high buildings and sharp objects to play with. It gives me riled dogs and empty pages of well-worn books that I have read before, but how could I have? When there is nothing to see and nothing to taste inside the binds but my own reflection glaring back at me, angry as I’ve always been.

To wish her that world inside my head would be to **** her right then. But that is not me. That is someone else.

A person hiding deep inside the shadows of my imagination.

It feels as if I'm losing it all.
The only guide - my hand - which, itself, is burnt.

And she passed me
Like everything else

**** the ones who make me mad
But let them be without it.

and everything that Was
could no longer Be.

It feels like an anchor is stuck to
my heart
and the chain going down
has only just begun
to rust.