First in handfuls made of grit
Gripped tight
Small and sharp against his skin
Its bite
Then
In the dark
Thrown high against the window panes
Of those deep in sleep
Their dreams haunted by the sound of rain
As he grew braver
Stones
Smooth against his fingers
Thrown at strangers in crowded streets
For no reason
Other than
The satisfaction
Of breaking skin
On hands and cheeks