To my favorite tea party guest,
I knew you since before we could count
One, two, three teaspoons of sugar stirred into our tea turning it to syrup
We were only four
when your eyes lit up because I took my new Barbie to your house
and your father cracked open a new bottle so he wouldn't have to see his son acting so queer.
Five, six, seven bruises covering your tiny body, you told the other kids it happened in karate.
Eight, nine months go by, choking on your tears every night, hoping you would die.
Ten fingers wiping away silent cries,
how could no one else see that you had your mother's eyes.
Eleven, twelve years old when syrupy tea turned to black coffee, and timeouts into belts.
He cursed you for being gay, filling you with shame,
strangers probably thought that faggot was your name.
Thirteen, fourteen when your father caught you kissing your boyfriend.
Your beating that night was too rough.
I tried to help you best I could but my best was not enough.
Just another flaming torch waiting for its snuff.
Fifteen days later you didn't come to school
I ran to your house
where the cops had decorated your room with yellow plastic tape
while your father cried on the floor.
Said he found you hanging right behind your closet door.
I walked inside your room and saw your journal sitting on the shelf,
you wrote me one last note before escaping this living hell.
If your plan was a success, I would know who holds the blame.
Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen years old when your flame went cold
and you became my dirt-clad daydream,
no longer searching for release.
You will always be my favorite tea party guest.
