To many of those 

who cannot witness

the events that take place

behind the tightly closed curtains 

of that tiny house

they note the way his hands are always open;

how those same limbs are lent to others

without reimbursement 

for the job they have done.

And they call him

”Sweet Boy”.

And some of those strangers,

who notice his hands

also make comments about the timid girl at his side.

The girl who stands a few inches away,

and slightly behind.

They wonder why such a beautiful girl

would be so shy 

and why she would not speak

on how lucky she was

to be in the company

of such a 

sweet boy.

Oh but at times,

when he takes refuge behind those drapes

he cannot bite the devil on his tongue

who leaves mean lashes on her cheeks--

and the bitter scent of iron red spills from beneath her skin.

But the tears she tries to withhold feel like hellfire

taking over her vision, 

and are more painful than the deep wounds 

left by the touch of his remarks

on the soft flesh of her face.

And when she leaves from behind the curtains

of that tiny house

sweet boy in tow,

with brushes and palettes

she paints herself a new face,

one with beautiful curves and sharp lines

to distract from the scars,

and she waits for the next person

to ask what it is like 

to be in love with

such a 

sweet boy.