i shoot this bandaid into the hole through your head
it leaves a mark, a hole. makes you like a window
without glass. there is no blood
and therefore, no medical is needed.
but you tell me that that bandaid hurt and that a bullet
would have said more in blood and in sound
and would have been better.
i tell you there is no such thing as the pain you describe.
i say until i see a lock of your hair in my locker dipped in
your own blood dye, you are as alive as all of us are.
but the day comes when the sun is not as prevalent
and the moon is silent and becomes an abandonning mother,
and you do not give me your black hair in blood.
by morning we see the oceans love you,
give you the tenderness you wanted, give you
words of encouragement and a welcoming into
their community.
by morning we see the oceans be your actual mother.
we see your hole filled with water never to be empty
for we do not dig you a grave, especially when the sand
themselves tuck you into the river bed.
by night, we realize our beds could have been a
potential place of comfort to you.
by next year, the world forgets your name was once
dipped in ink the same way you are dipped in water and blood.
my locker stays unlocked, in disbelief.
by adulthood, i wish to go swimming with you.