Tearing back flesh and laying bare your veins and muscles. Lusting after street anatomy tattoos. A heart and a brain in the shallow, soft indentations of iliac crests and the insides of thighs. Swallow your disgust and feel your pulse.
Mother asks him, “Why don’t you ask him why he says things like that to you?” He’s not a girl, that’s why. Punch him, I suggest. Punch his lights out. He’s supposed to be my friend, he says. Looks from side-to-side shyly. He is not his disease, and I want to beat this “friend” into the ground. We can’t fight each other’s battles. Punch him, I say again softly, when he brushes past me to leave the room. It’ll be okay. Everything is going to be alright. He says, That’s just your mantra. It doesn’t mean anything.
Mother asks him, “Why don’t you ask him why he says things like that to you?” He’s not a girl, that’s why. Punch him, I suggest. Punch his lights out. He’s supposed to be my friend, he says. Looks from side-to-side shyly. He is not his disease, and I want to beat this “friend” into the ground. We can’t fight each other’s battles. Punch him, I say again softly, when he brushes past me to leave the room. It’ll be okay. Everything is going to be alright. He says, That’s just your mantra. It doesn’t mean anything.
No comments:
Post a Comment