tw: suicide attempt
dean was just another boy taught to die
(he was one of the rare ones who survived.)
we have been friends since before forever
but forever was no more than our lives.
at fourteen, they tried to break us apart.
i was weak and confused and full of fear,
but i believed and loved with all my heart,
so we reached a compromise on that night.
we shouldn't be friends anymore, they said;
i was a pretty boy with pretty grades
and an important name and enough shame,
while he was messed up in the head, they said,
why would pretty dean cut his pretty hair?
why would he say he's a boy, not a girl?
dean couldn't swim, so on friday nights, i'd go
to his absent aunt's flat to save him from
drowning in loneliness and hopelessness.
i'd recite him poetry stolen from
somewhere out of this deadbeat, idle town,
he'd pretend that he was in love with it.
i'd trim his messy hair in the bathtub,
and he'd let me play with his aunt's make-up.
we'd take turns in telling stories about
my brother and dad, his parents and aunt.
together, we'd make plans and count money
and get drunk until saturday's sun came.
we'd share blankets and kisses and secrets,
tea mugs and dreams and shooting star wishes.
but sometimes we fall and we don't fall like
hair strands do; reality's much harder
than the floor of the bathtub, and our bones
are much more fragile (because of pressure,)
so when we break, we hurt 'til we're alright.
and one time, we went too high and we crashed,
we broke and we landed too far apart
from each other, our bodies and our hearts;
i was swimming in my tears all alone,
and he was slipping away, drowning in
his loneliness. a miracle saved him
from sinking to the bottom, to his end.
miracles don't happen more than once but
he promised me he'd never try to leave,
i promised him i'd always be with him,
so we reached a compromise on that night,
once again, but under different lights.
a decade passes by, and we're no more
fourteen; holding onto reality
rather than hanging onto sweet, sad dreams.
he doesn't need binders more than i do,
i don't need to play with his aunt's make-up
when i have my own set in our own flat
in a city where people live and breathe.
and we still make plans, count money, get drunk,
we still share blankets and kisses and pasts,
tea mugs and futures and happy moments.
and we still fall and break because our bones
are still fragile and the floor is still hard,
but when we break, we heal, then we're alright.
dean was just another boy told to die,
but he was just another boy who lived.
edited a tiny bit by sarah 💓
YOU ARE READING
BOYS
Poetrya collection of poems in which you meet twenty-six boys and read their stories from the perspective of twenty-six other boys. you've met most of them before, in reality, outside these pages. and you've seen some of their faces in the street. and you...
