Dear Tulsa, Love Ponyboy | JOHNNYBOY ONESHOTS | THE OUTSIDERS

5 | The Boy Who Lost To The Dark

Genre: Angst Poetry Brain Vomit.
Words: 657

TW: MENTIONS OF SUICIDAL THOUGHTS
____

Ponyboy Curtis

____

I think about a boy every night.
Correction, he isn't just a boy to me. He is my person. But who am I to poor Johnny?
Every night, I whisper his name under my breath, slip his name under my pillow like a tooth, hoping for something in return. Hoping that maybe if I were to chant his name one more time, just one more time, my wishes would come true, and that he would be mine.
Except, nobody want's poor ol' Johnny Cade i've been told. He's simply the discarded one. Chewed up, scarred, spat out, and crumpled on the side of the curb. He takes the punches like he's the one at fault. Like he's the punching bag.
Tonight he lays in my bed completely numb and thoughtless. I don't mean this in a sexual sense, he's simply resting in my bed. He fidgets with his fingers above him and I let him, I stare at him numb myself — what am I about to do? Johnny had been discarded again tonight. I found him all crumpled up on the curb, blood stains his face, and all he can manage to quiver is a soft: "Help."
It's a sick routine. The soc's, the parents, they all play into this — like it's a game.
But are games fun when you're chipping away at the fragile pariah? Is that fun to you? The boy who had, all his life, was shown he wasn't correct. That somethings wrong with him. Is it all worth it? Making poor ol' Johnny slip away from who he is? I ask all these questions but never find the answer. The person I lay next to is simply only the shadow, the remains, of the boy I once knew. Johnny once smiled, and laughed, and climbed the tree in front of my house with me. He'd sing and he'd dance and he was so happy. Now he frowns and cries and when he cries he suffocates himself with his tears and he holds his breath till he's purple and when I try to help he yells to stop and to just let him die. He yells that he "cannot do it anymore". His mother says in response: "You cannot fix the broken." But what if you could? Piece by piece, thread by thread, day by day, put back together what was lost to the dark in the light. What if poor ol' Johnny wasn't 'poor ol' Johnny' anymore?

"Johnny" I whisper, a sad undertone seeps through my throat and I feel my fingers start to shake beneath my fingertips. Johnny turns to me, his eyes are glossy and he looks so, so broken. His face is littered with fresh cuts, wounds from punches, and the scars, the trauma, that never slipped away. My hand shakes as I go to press my palm against the side of his face. He jolts in my touch but soon sinks into it. My lip quivers as I watch his fear. How could someone make someone so torn apart? "I think you're the most beautiful person in the world." I whisper, rubbing my thumb against a barely healed scar on his cheek. I watch a tear slip from his face and a very small, hidden gem of joy. I smile. "I want to help you," I shake. "but I can only help you if you let me." "So help me." he whispers, I listen to his voice break and crack and find myself lost in sorrow. So I help him piece himself back together. But its not an easy process. The days are long, and they are slow, but eventually he does, piece by piece, thread by thread, day by day, he puts back together what he lost to the dark in the light. And Johnny couldn't be happier.

____

a/n) okay work it poet 🤞🤞