He walks through the halls
with his head down,
mumbling sticks and stones will break his bones,
every phrase quieter
every tortuously repeated stanza becoming more and more inaudible.
He sticks to the wall like gum to a movie theater floor.
He’s the soil that grows wall flowers.
He’s the childhood toy everyone forgot about.
He was silent.

He was a popped tire;
He was an empty garden box.
His heart was destitute like an abandoned home,
His locker cleaned out like a bad gambler’s wallet,
His gun case hollow like an unused coffin.

Then one day,
his head was high,
his face firm and emotionless.
He put the gun to his head.
Then people heard him.

He was never inaudible; we were deaf.
He didn't shove out his heart; we surgically removed it.
He pulled the trigger,
but we killed him.