Eleven-years-old should be bold and boyful Joyful, jelly beans and snow on Christmas Robert Frost’s birches, swinging on branches Latching to hopes that have yet to become.
Seventeen should be dreaming, dress-up as grown-up Growing and grinning and racing the time— Sprint to the finish, and then look behind Hours to minutes and seconds to breaths.
But his face had roundness that gave way to edges, Glittering, forged from the weight of the press How much can you take away from the boy? You take and you take until there’s nothing left.
He howled at night, at the stars and the sky He’d have pulled down the moon, if only he could And he should, he ought to have clawed down the heavens For the hole gaping wide, for a god who deserts.
And still, though he trembled, sweat slicking his skin When he saw you watching, he gave you a grin. It was tender, titanium, tenacious and thin And tremulous, breaking apart in the wind.
His fingers pressed into the dirt and the dice Then he gazed at you, O Fate, like a vise His heart made of gold but his eyes made of ice And he told you, O Fate: “𝑵𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏.”