Tag Archives: depression

The Boy in the Box

Standard

He is innocent.

And the people wear black
with masks of mourn on their faces.
They pander and amble
and speak of prettier places.
And prettier times,
the days he was alive
as if they have any idea
about the boy with rain-splattered eyes.

Locked in a prison,
black, and laced with red rose,
the darkest void I imagine
but how can I know?
The people in black
are hugging me and crying.
Their tears are unwanted,
in pity, they’re lying.

This place is a facade,
a charade masked in black.
The boy in the box
would give it all back.
They got everything wrong,
from the dress to the seats.
They don’t even realize
who he was to me.

His brother approaches,
and holds me in his arms.
Whispers condolence,
and then he is gone.

I am seated with this crowd
of fake mourners and the like;
actors and actresses
trying on a new life.
The priest at the podium
says a few words,
turns his gaze on me,
and gives me the stage.

I stand, I approach,
though hesitant still.
I don’t have the words,
and I never will.

How will I say
who this boy was to me?
How can I describe
in sentences they can see?
He is no one to them,
just another name.
Another face in the crowd
who left short of his days.

A headstone in the park,
where I insisted it be.
How do I tell them
who this boy was to me?

I turn my gaze to the wall
in the back of the room.
He is standing there, curious,
one of the few.
No one else cares,
I realize then.
No one else wants to hear
about my dearest friend.

I will tell them anyway.

I look again to him,
I beg him to stay.
I beg him to give me
the words I should say.
I beg him to hold me
the way he used to.
I beg him to forgive me
for all the things that I do.

But he is curious,
and I shall receive no help.

I turn to the crowd,
and murmur a thought.
“I love roses,” I say
with a helplessness I forgot.
A sound of confusion
passes by each actor’s lips.
They turn to each other
and ask to each, “What is this?”

I clear my throat softly,
raising my voice.
“I love roses,” I repeat.
regaining my poise.
“He loved roses as well,
loved them because of me.
I cannot make speeches,
I don’t know how to be.”

But all the same, all I tell them,
the don’t deserve to know.
I must tell them, however,
the boy must go on.

I tell them of his sadness,
of his deepening scare.
Of his wonderful smile,
his calculating stare.
“I loved him,” I say softly.
“And I always will.”
I gaze back at him.
“Despite everything, I love him even still.”

“But I am the reason he’s gone.”

The boy’s gaze changes,
with words I can’t decipher.
I step down from the post
and watch them call me a liar.
The actors hold me so tight,
they say it isn’t my fault.
“These things just happen,”
they say. “That’s all.”

They all tell me it’s not my fault,
but sometimes it is.

I killed the boy with the rain-splattered eyes.

This was based on the trial chapter of a book I never really finished. I ended up gaining more interest in a different story that I was working on, so this chapter is the only one I had. Since I had nowhere else to put it, I decided to just retell the story in a poem and post it here.