⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm ⚠
___________________
­
In memory of
him?
her?

I do not know.

___________________
­In the hushed moments
before sleep,
you summon the
loveliest memories of him--
memories now
resigned to heartache and destitution,
to some far off, phantasmic realm
(wherever that may be);

you come to school ill
one winter's morning,
flesh cadaverous,
pale cheeks embellished
by bloodshot eyes
wreathed in dark circles.

He rests his hand atop
your forehead affectionately,
his eyes shaded with concern
as he comes to the realization that
"You're burning up."

(But, eventually, his affections
begin to ebb away,
and with them, so does your fire--
the stuff of magic);

Mouth frothing with rage,
you haul off and
punch the living ****
out of a bathroom stall.
This escapade of fury
leaves your left hand
inflamed
bruised
splintered.

When you tell him
what you've done,
he meets you outside
of the girl's washroom
and takes your hand in his,
runs his fingers over the
inflammation
bruises
splinters
softly and asks you,
"Does it hurt?"

(These days, it hurts everywhere--
and all for him, darling);

He pulls you--
fretful and teary-eyed--
to his chest,
his palm cradling
the back of your neck.

For a moment
you forget about
the cuts on your thighs;
the blood seeping
from your nylons;
the sorrow gnawing
at your bones.
For a moment,
you can't help but wonder
if this boy
is to be your
Gideon--
your Holy Grail.

(And, to think,
one abrupt gesticulation
of his wrist
and your neck snaps--
and you're a goner).