Boy

Say the boy didn’t leave the room.

Say he learned to love you
like language.

Baby steps, broken teeth, eyes brimming
with tears as he held you in the street.

Say the boy learned to open up
like the skies did at night.

Say he learned to live in the walls
of your home so you didn’t have to.
Learned how to canvas the palms
of your hands like the cracks in the
pavements you fell through.

He always knew which way to go.

Say the boy broke down.
Cracked the clock to drink
the time you could’ve had.
Burned down the bed your hollow body
rested in to find a way to sleep at night.

Say he turned a room into a pyre.
Fire licking the linings where
your back used to bend.

Our mouths don’t exist like
archways anymore.
We are bare to the bruising
this love burdens us with.

Say the boy hurt. Peeled back
his bones that built his frame
just to feel the burn again.

Say the boy died.

By Jade Mitchell

Biography:

Jade Mitchell is a writer / poet currently residing near Glasgow, Scotland. She is currently studying at Strathclyde University and runs her own poetry society for fellow students. Her work has been featured in The Grind Journal and Words Dance Magazine, of which she is a contributing editor. Her work can be found on her blog at vagabondly.tumblr.com