the imprint of a dead boy

January 16, 2018
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and now i’m thinking too much. again.

of your heart clenched between my fingers.

i’m thinking of rusty red blood scraped off

in the school’s bathroom sink

from the hands of those who can’t hide from the guilt.

i’m thinking of calls for help in broken megaphones

which only attracted squeaks from the rats

because hope has an expiration date.

i’m thinking about pulling the trigger every day

at our feet, at our hands, at the tufts of hair just near our skulls

and being screamed at for coming home

with bleeding heads.

i’m thinking of how we'd climb onto the roofs of buildings

with only the chilling air between our feet and the ground

and how we wouldn’t jump

but just stare at the flashing lights

and wonder what it would be like to fall.

i’m thinking of the stained ground

and how much time it must have took for somebody to clean it.

i’m thinking about the odds that anybody mentioned it again.

i’m thinking of your name

becoming just a mere whisper in the hallways

the fresh pot of gossip until a better topic comes along

and then i feel guilty for thinking

since you’re not thinking at all.

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