He was a boy, not merely wrong; he was there, but not entirely present. Yet, I write with blood and torn skin. I write with crimson tears and the scratches of the present. I write in the shackles of the past. When I write about him, there is no blood spilling from my mouth, just pure saliva, like normalcy. Because he's a boy, a simple boy, I met him when I was in the 10th grade, pretending to be all frantic. He was there, putting a smile on your face, vigorous and slippery. He's regular, and I'm irregular. He's water, and I'm blood. He's the sun, and I'm the moon. He's the soft lips, and I'm the sharp teeth. He's a good boy, and I'm a wild girl. He's everything, and I'm nothing. Like I said, it's not poetry with blood when writing about him; it's poetry with neutral tones. Why? Because he's truly life.
