after he committed suicide that morning
everybody started talking about him,
which wasn't so unusual, though now
rather than putting him down they spoke
emotionally and caringly. it was amazing.
in the space of a few hours he had gone
from the most hated and unwanted
person at school, to someone that
everybody loved. i really couldn't
understand it. even now, after he had
split himself open like a breakfast eggshell—
their words were still wrong.
I watch the rain cut through the sky like kamikaze razors
and my stomach is empty and screaming though I can't eat
and I think about the girl last Saturday night chasing away
the other girls from me "HE'S MY BOYFRIEND!!!" she yelled
at a blonde who kissed me without even an introduction—
though come Monday wouldn't even answer a phone call.
she is so much stronger than me—truly heartless. and the
rain continues to slice through the helplessly wounded sky
and I am lost for direction on this Wednesday afternoon
ageing but no wiser the omniscient poet fooled again.
Brenton Booth is a writer of poetry and prose. He resides in Sydney, Australia. Work of his has appeared in lots of great publications, that can be found by Googling his name.
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