I feel like every time I talk about him,
I use the wrong word.
When I say "******",
I feel like I'm giving him a paper bag,
Under which he can hide,
And distance himself from what he's done.
It feels like a type of absolution.

His name is Bryan.
He is a six foot and two inches tall monster,
That I wish lived only in my dreams.
He rides a motorcycle,
Has a dog named Gilbert,
And smokes unfiltered camels.

And I was wrong.
He is not a monster,
He is a person.
And he is not just a stupid boy,
He is a man.
And he is not just the generic term "******".

He is a human being who is seriously ****** up and I'm not going to give him the privilege of having his name withheld from my story.