I remember the three times you were angry with me.
one, two, three.
you were not an angry boy.
one.
we were very young.
you didn't want me to climb the trees, because you thought I'd get hurt. you had always been wiser than me.
but I had wanted to climb the trees, to get closer to the sky.
when I fell down, I hit my head, and I cried and I cried.
and I remember you shouted at me till your voice was hoarse.
and then you sat on the grass, pulled my head into your lap, and told me you forgave me in a quiet, quiet voice.
and then you pointed at the clouds and asked me, "aren't they close enough?"
they were, when you were holding my hand.
I haven't climbed a tree since.
two.
one of the girls was upset with me. it hadn't been my fault.
she shouted at me, kicked me, and finally threw her food at me.
without saying a word, I had calmly picked up her food and thrown it away, and then went and sat down.
you had glared at me for a long while, then finally demanded why I put up with that. why I was so painfully good.
I didn't respond.
you had gotten angry. angrier than I had ever seen you.
but you didn't shout or yell, you simply turned away from me. that was enough to show.
finally, you turned back around, looked at me very fiercely and had said, "I think you're an angel."
then you got up and left.
three.
recently, recently enough to still hurt. your face is still too fresh in my mind.
one of the boys told you one of my friends on my phone was my boyfriend. it wasn't true, but your face darkened all the same.
you demanded to see his picture, to learn his name, to know who he was.
(not you.)
and I, I went along with it, blushing and smiling like a little girl with a crush on a boy. maybe you should have had a taste of jealousy for a change.
and when we returned home that night, you shouted at me till all the world could hear.
you didn't like his hair, his earring, his clothing, his school, his brother (of all things) his past, his family, his house, you didn't like him, period.
then you slammed the door.
I went to bed smiling.
a/n: more like 3 diff accounts of a boy than poetry, but like oh well
