I don’t want to know his chest tore open, but I keep imagining it.
I picture it happening the way mind did.
There are parallels in any type of suffering,
Even if I’ve never been absolutely crucified the way he must have been.
I nailed him to a cross and he let me,
And he watched as I walked away,
Leaving him to the crows,
To the absolute rot of being unloved.
I can’t hold him,
Or even give him a sympathetic smile.
I can’t tell him it’s going to be okay,
Because me saying anything about it at all
Is just another winged scavenger
Pulling at his flesh,
Making the process of dying
That much more revulsive.
I shouldn’t have done it,
In the rubble of the aftermath,
The best thing I can do
Is to walk away.
17 years old