A Boy Like Me

They tell me I was lucky

To be born

A boy like me.

They don’t know the dread

I am put through

They don’t know

What it feels to be controlled

By fear, by circumstances.

But everyday

I walk towards the same old tree.

Sit on the swing, forever free.

 

My skin still tender. My skin

Now marked with scars and blisters

Bitter and dark.

Lined with the guilt that lingers.

The pain and shame that flows down

Silently reflecting the secrets within.

But I don’t whine.

I tend to those wounds; they won’t leave me alone –

They stay with me – in light and gloom.

And bathing in that agony,

I walk towards the same old tree.

Sit on the swing, forever free.

 

 

The clenched fists that reign over me

Enraged; disgust and insobriety at different times

But no. I can’t let anyone know.

Silent screams now echo inside

My own deep chasms of insecurity

They should not worry about me

I shall hide the stains – blemishes that laugh at me.

I can’t retort.

So I seek shelter under the lonely oak tree.

The rope I firmly hold inside my fingers

My only refuge.

I walk towards the same old tree.

Sit on the swing, forever free.

 

 

My skin is now scarlet.

Every dusk and dawn means burning and freezing

There is no running away,

There is no escape.

So I walk again, to the same old tree.

The swing is no more.

The rope I firmly held, inside my fingers

Now rests around my neck.

Now I let go, one last time.

The noose doesn’t betray.

Today I am the swing, forever free.

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