Broken Boys and Broken Men
They wake up.
I like to think that their minds are cracked
But only their skin can.
Train tracks of scabbed blood travel down their back,
Bite marks bubble beneath their bristles of hair,
Bruises burn from my beating fists,
Outlining a dot to dot,
All are clues of miniature protest,
But these they show off,
They rename them.
He says, they say, they said:
‘moaning marks of pure passion’,
And we are all friends in the morning,
No stranger has jumped out from behind a bush to attack me,
Nor have I been threatened or blackmailed.
Sometimes the people who hurt you are the ones smiling in your photos
Or the ones who cook you breakfast,
Drive you home in the mornings,
The ones you trust.
So, its easiest to forget,
Laugh it away.
When all the lines are a little blurred,
Best not to colour anything in.
So, when you finally do say it,
It tastes like a lie,
A twisted fantasy.
The best weapon is factory made and poured into glass bottles
Because when you drink,
It’s harder to point the finger
And why point it at a friend?
So, broken boys go on to be broken men
Who dust off their soiled skin suits,
smile and introduce themselves,
never to let you go
and the cycle repeats itself
Many of these broken men call themselves your friends.