Golden
Meet Boy
The boy
The one whose skin is a rough draft
With words scribbled crookedly down his arms and legs,
doubled spaced to leave just enough room for correction.
The boy
The one who bathes in eraser shavings
And has red ink saliva dripping from the tip of his tongue.
they’ve broken him in half like a wooden pencil
the edges rough, uneven, dangerous.
So he presses his body against the wall,
Sheetrock becoming envelope.
Body becoming stamp.
and gathers himself up, again.
He takes a small blade from his back pocket—He keeps it there just in case.
And he sharpens himself.
The one whose skin is a rough draft
With words scribbled crookedly down his arms and legs,
doubled spaced to leave just enough room for correction.
The boy
The one who bathes in eraser shavings
And has red ink saliva dripping from the tip of his tongue.
they’ve broken him in half like a wooden pencil
the edges rough, uneven, dangerous.
So he presses his body against the wall,
Sheetrock becoming envelope.
Body becoming stamp.
and gathers himself up, again.
He takes a small blade from his back pocket—He keeps it there just in case.
And he sharpens himself.