sun-bleached seats.

sun-bleached heroes

Written: 24/5-2017

Autumn, 2012

"FUCKING FAGGOT!"

Pale fingers around pale throat.

Blue eyes close to gray.

"DIE! I WANT YOU TO DIE!"

Body slammed into brick wall, fingers around slender neck.

Coughing.

"S-stop..."

More coughing.

People all around,
but they had no eyes,
and they had no voice.

Blind,

deaf,

mute.

And they couldn't see the bruises forming.

And they couldn't hear the broken cries.

And they couldn't shout how wrong it was.

Not because they thought it was right,
but because they didn't think it was wrong.

They didn't know the pain.

They didn't know the sleepless nights.

They didn't know the pitch black loneliness.

They just didn't want it to be them.

And as tears fell, so did their conscience.

Do you know why people like violence? It is because it feels good.

If you keep telling someone they are

disgusting,

ugly,

worthless,

they will believe you in the end.

And if you keep on

abusing,

punching,

touching,

they will know their place.

And you'll never become the one they abuse.

Not verbally,
not physically.

You'll gain their respect.

You'll be happy.

And that's why some people in the silent audience regained their voices.

"He's a fag?"

"That's disgusting!"

"All faggots should be extinct."

"Do we start with this cocksucker?"

And as the blood became blooming roses and his sweater a meadow,

and as the tears ran like streams in the spring,

and as the bruises turned the boy into a beautiful rainbow,