I want him to hurt.
   As much as he has hurt me.
 I am now the boy shrouded in self-pity,
      a sad parody of his shockingly human reflection,
  rocking back and forth
in the dark corner of a rusty elevator shaft,
     balled up fetal-style
   with clouds between his knees
              and a fire in his belly. 
    I’ve found that I have a penchant for carnivores.
Those who tear into my heartmeat 
                    and move on.
    Those are the ones I run to
             with a passion,
                    fluids racing,
               arms flung to the sides
           face towards the sky
                 as if it were the first time I’d seen it.
I know all about my right to bleed.
    I have exercised it with a vengeance.
 The right to swallow my desolation up,
      wash it down with a straight shot
                                       of self-deprecation.
What about my right to breathe?
       To stand on the edge of the canyon and inhale-
     not worrying that I might fall in
       and be consumed by the echoing of my own voice tainted with his.
 I hate being this boy.
     The one with gauze around his wrists
             and padding on his walls.
But I am beginning to realize that I am not built for hurricanes.
        That boys lie and life is hard.
 That happy endings are not always waiting for you
         		 when you emerge from the enchanted forest.
      That the moral of the story is not always clear
              and the lesson you learned does not always stay lodged in your brain
          the way you swore that it would.
 How many chances at happiness do you get before
                 		 you are diagnosed as a helpless case?
    		When exactly do they pull the plug?
      I feel like I am in limbo
            scratching about the graffiti-splattered walls, 
                       trying to find strength,
     with the sad presence of a newly doused flame in my eyes
             and the strange, metallic taste of blood swirling persistently in my mouth.  




  


    

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