The boy mourned
for you. His solitary walks
had him trampling
flowers into the dirt.

​

Pretty things weren’t allowed to exist anymore.

​

The broken petals bowed
in a new shame and
the boy tried to find power in it.

​

The day after your funeral,
the boy went home and smashed
every mirror he owned.

​

He could not erase the word ‘pretty’ from your lips.

​

In dreams he tried to strangle curses
out of a dead man.
Anything to make him bitter
                                        and ugly
                                                  and worthy to stay.

​

You couldn’t lie to him; he was still so beautiful.

​

Bad luck seeped
through the cracks of the
house you once called home.

​

The boy, pretty
and dressed in grief,
did not see himself staying here
much longer.