After Leila Chatti / After Tyler Raso

Truth be told, I have always been afraid                      of the other boys.
When I write them, I imagine them                like me, strange and soft
-boned, subservient                    to a fault. The first time a boy wanted
to hurt me,                                                    I let him. He struck my face
like a match, my skin splitting                        around his palm. When I
began to cry, he was                    confused. I thought you would hit me
back, he says. I thought you were one                          of us. Since then,
the wound has widened                       into a window. I warm my breath
against the glass, watch the other boys                                worship each
other’s hands. Alone, I can only mimic             their reverence, practice
opening and closing                                  around a fist. Another version
of myself watches from behind,                  disapproving. In my father’s
voice, she warns me no one can protect you                      from yourself.
Listen, every boy has a bruise                       that will never heal. A body
is more               than a storm shelter.                  I am still trying to find
forgiveness                           between my own sharpened knuckles. I am
still trying to find an escape                                          that is not an exit.
Somewhere inside me, there is a boy                           bleeding in a dark
room. When I open the door,                                                 he will open
his arms                                                                          and ask to be held.