14 year old boys have a habit of picking at old wounds
Taking their finger and pulling on the flesh strings
The ones that took so long to heal
Reaching their hands out at your bullet wounds and throwing your blood on the white floors
Wrapping their arms around your waist
And holding on so tight you become blue in the face
Oxygen becoming a lump in your tired throat
And your words grasping on to the little bit of hope you had left
14 year old boys like making new wounds on your body and reopening old ones