I wish I can find you a cure, To heal everything I done wrong to you. I wish I can give much more, Knowing my love has always been so true. I miss the way you used to laugh, Knowing I’m here to always hold you strong. Alas, what left of me is staph… Burning needles under my skin and wrong. It’s not your fault of me falling, All done to myself a long time ago. The bugs aren’t in me yet crawling, My chemical romance you’ll never know. So what of the days to all shine, My heart blackened and praised a shrine?
I read from my seventh gay YA novel of the year as the central line whirls by my skull scraping away the buried sensations looking across the pockmarked platform to year 8 the boy who I kissed in secret in the changing rooms suddenly looked like death on the school pitch since the passes were now higher harder and tackles less friendly without words exchanging I think maybe then he knew our practice wasn’t something we could repeat that the risk of pretending to be as much of lover a boy can was too adult too real for lunchtime escapes maybe then my feet knew his retreating frame in the summer heat was an unconscious betrayal my heart failing to reach out and soothe his agony when the metal studs flirted with his skin and he’s looking up at me like a salve like some sort of safe haven leaving him on the astroturf to bleed alone and in that moment I reach out across the lines to try to smooth out his face and tell him he will stand and his smile will make the pain yield and his hands will hold another boy and will not be left alone I pull my hand back to let him rest at last and the train pulls in.