Don't look at me and say you see
good,
They don't like that. The way
my hands are caked in colour. The way
the wall behind me is now
desecrated, they say, how can you
question those who wear
well with grain on their
lips?

The grain is their gun and
it's always on their
lips.

You'd go to their parties in your best clothes,
you'd tell them secrets to better portray how you wanted
to be consumed; how you wanted to be seen in
the right light of entwined, callous mouths.

Though years passed and the canteen hall
smelled of stale jokes and worn-out references
your group stuck together by a conformed
sense of security and a scared mixture of secrets.

The bell rung hollow one last time as your
group disbanded into grey, lifeless figures.
The adults around you knew them as temporary
indulgences. You called them something warmer.