Saviour Boy.
Saviour Boy.
There is someone out there, I know it.
He’s just an innocent, unsuspecting, little teenage boy. He won’t know what’s hit him, and he probably won’t accept himself at first. He’ll try and claw out of his Plaster Of Paris mask, scratch at his skin until it bleeds, and he’ll try burning whatever ‘it’ is out of him. He’ll hate himself for it, I know he will. Eventually, though, he’ll accept it and he’ll start his search for his one in six billion.
And he’ll find many guys willing. He’ll find them waiting in dark alleys and in the gutters of the city, or maybe just in the school corridor, just waiting, seducing him into a false sense of security. He’ll stay with them for a while, he’ll be deceived into believing that they love him. He’ll whisper it in their ear, and his words will be mirrored. They’ll mean different things, he’ll meant that he thinks he loves them, they’ll mean that they love his body. They’re all different things, you know. They are all worlds apart.
He’ll maybe one day, come around from his ‘lover’s’ trance; he’ll wake up from the blatant hypnotism that being young, free, hormonal, can induce. He’ll realise that he may as well have been on Crack Cocaine, and that everything he saw was distorted. Nothing will be picture perfect for him; he’s only young.
And then one day, he’ll pluck up the courage to refuse. He’ll meet the guy at a restaurant, or just McDonald’s or Starbuck’s, as a break-up date. They’ll argue, maybe one of them will cry. Whether or not the tears going cascading are real or ‘Crocodile’s tears’, will depend on who sheds them. If they’re his, it will be because he’s been put on a guilt trip and he is still so confused by everything. If they’re the other’s, they’ll be fake, just a show for the surrounding people.
“I thought you loved me, sugar.” They’ll sob. “You promised not to leave me. You saved me, don’t desert me.”
“I thought I loved you too, baby.”
“Don’t call me that!”
They’ll run out crying, leaving him to pay the waitress before hurrying off into the night to try and stop them doing anything stupid.
He’ll find them, sat in the shadows from which they came. They’ll have stopped crying, the tear dispensers flicked off at the switch. He’ll approach them slowly. He doesn’t want to scare them, it’s a dark night in a rough area. It could cause a heart attack!
“I’m sorry!” he’ll say softly. “I’m just so confused.”
“I never loved you! You can’t see that, can you? You could never see it. You were just the next kid to be attached to the end of my arm, you were the next china doll to be placed in the trophy cabinet. Leave me alone! You’ve made your choice!”
He’ll run away, to his bedroom, weeping at the harsh, blade-like words. ‘He never loved me?’ No, sweetheart, he didn’t. It was just a lie; a white lie, almost. A lie so tainted it’s unbelievable. And yet the innocence seems to glow off it, doesn’t it? It’s so common, now-a-days; it’s like a wren’s piss in the sea, as the Welsh say. Every day, a thousand teenage couples split, it’s not that big-a-deal as it was. They’ll use the excuse of ‘finding themselves’, but we all know it’s not the case – they’ve been pulling us along since the start.
We are like their dogs, honey. We obediently appear at their feet when they call, we allow ourselves to wear collars and we allow the leash to be attached at their convenience. We are under their total control.
The cycle will continue, each time, he’ll vow himself not to get hurt again. He’ll make a silent promise to stop it before it can become a double-barrelled gun pointed at his forehead. He’ll sign contracts with himself not to fall in ‘love’ again. He won’t venture back into the shadows again (for a week). Then he’ll think he’s found ‘the one’. Then he’ll get stabbed through the chest by one of them, and he’ll run back to his bedroom, and sob into his poor, soaking pillow and curl up in creased sheets. And so the cycle continues.
And then one time, it’ll be different. The boy he finds in the shadows will be a boy just like him. Both of them will be looking for their next master; both of them will believe that the boy they have just met is one of them, the sort who will keep him on a chain.
And they’ll come out into the sunlight holding hands. It will be the first time either of them has really seen sunlight in years. It will blind them – burn their retinas. But the pair will be happy. They’ll lie on hilltops and in fields and in forests and sit in coffee houses, and they’ll laugh. They’ll chuckle. They’ll get to know each other. They’ll feed each other off a fork in the other’s hand. They’ll lean across the table and their lips will connect, if only for a second. Then later, they’ll sit and be watching a favourite movie, and their lips will crash and they’ll spiral into an uncontrolled bliss. Everything will be laced with passion.
And all I’m praying is that I’ll meet him. And that I can be his one-and-only. His saviour.
He’s just an innocent, unsuspecting, little teenage boy. He won’t know what’s hit him, and he probably won’t accept himself at first. He’ll try and claw out of his Plaster Of Paris mask, scratch at his skin until it bleeds, and he’ll try burning whatever ‘it’ is out of him. He’ll hate himself for it, I know he will. Eventually, though, he’ll accept it and he’ll start his search for his one in six billion.
And he’ll find many guys willing. He’ll find them waiting in dark alleys and in the gutters of the city, or maybe just in the school corridor, just waiting, seducing him into a false sense of security. He’ll stay with them for a while, he’ll be deceived into believing that they love him. He’ll whisper it in their ear, and his words will be mirrored. They’ll mean different things, he’ll meant that he thinks he loves them, they’ll mean that they love his body. They’re all different things, you know. They are all worlds apart.
He’ll maybe one day, come around from his ‘lover’s’ trance; he’ll wake up from the blatant hypnotism that being young, free, hormonal, can induce. He’ll realise that he may as well have been on Crack Cocaine, and that everything he saw was distorted. Nothing will be picture perfect for him; he’s only young.
And then one day, he’ll pluck up the courage to refuse. He’ll meet the guy at a restaurant, or just McDonald’s or Starbuck’s, as a break-up date. They’ll argue, maybe one of them will cry. Whether or not the tears going cascading are real or ‘Crocodile’s tears’, will depend on who sheds them. If they’re his, it will be because he’s been put on a guilt trip and he is still so confused by everything. If they’re the other’s, they’ll be fake, just a show for the surrounding people.
“I thought you loved me, sugar.” They’ll sob. “You promised not to leave me. You saved me, don’t desert me.”
“I thought I loved you too, baby.”
“Don’t call me that!”
They’ll run out crying, leaving him to pay the waitress before hurrying off into the night to try and stop them doing anything stupid.
He’ll find them, sat in the shadows from which they came. They’ll have stopped crying, the tear dispensers flicked off at the switch. He’ll approach them slowly. He doesn’t want to scare them, it’s a dark night in a rough area. It could cause a heart attack!
“I’m sorry!” he’ll say softly. “I’m just so confused.”
“I never loved you! You can’t see that, can you? You could never see it. You were just the next kid to be attached to the end of my arm, you were the next china doll to be placed in the trophy cabinet. Leave me alone! You’ve made your choice!”
He’ll run away, to his bedroom, weeping at the harsh, blade-like words. ‘He never loved me?’ No, sweetheart, he didn’t. It was just a lie; a white lie, almost. A lie so tainted it’s unbelievable. And yet the innocence seems to glow off it, doesn’t it? It’s so common, now-a-days; it’s like a wren’s piss in the sea, as the Welsh say. Every day, a thousand teenage couples split, it’s not that big-a-deal as it was. They’ll use the excuse of ‘finding themselves’, but we all know it’s not the case – they’ve been pulling us along since the start.
We are like their dogs, honey. We obediently appear at their feet when they call, we allow ourselves to wear collars and we allow the leash to be attached at their convenience. We are under their total control.
The cycle will continue, each time, he’ll vow himself not to get hurt again. He’ll make a silent promise to stop it before it can become a double-barrelled gun pointed at his forehead. He’ll sign contracts with himself not to fall in ‘love’ again. He won’t venture back into the shadows again (for a week). Then he’ll think he’s found ‘the one’. Then he’ll get stabbed through the chest by one of them, and he’ll run back to his bedroom, and sob into his poor, soaking pillow and curl up in creased sheets. And so the cycle continues.
And then one time, it’ll be different. The boy he finds in the shadows will be a boy just like him. Both of them will be looking for their next master; both of them will believe that the boy they have just met is one of them, the sort who will keep him on a chain.
And they’ll come out into the sunlight holding hands. It will be the first time either of them has really seen sunlight in years. It will blind them – burn their retinas. But the pair will be happy. They’ll lie on hilltops and in fields and in forests and sit in coffee houses, and they’ll laugh. They’ll chuckle. They’ll get to know each other. They’ll feed each other off a fork in the other’s hand. They’ll lean across the table and their lips will connect, if only for a second. Then later, they’ll sit and be watching a favourite movie, and their lips will crash and they’ll spiral into an uncontrolled bliss. Everything will be laced with passion.
And all I’m praying is that I’ll meet him. And that I can be his one-and-only. His saviour.