the corner of the playground

a brick walled oasis fitted with

a mud covered kick ball

is passed back and forth

the echo of the ball bouncing 

engulfing dirty hands and dirty words

secrets no twelve year old should have to keep

you teach me how to tie

a noose around my lips

to choke on the syllables

i engrave on the inside 

of my middle finger

your thighs

a cloth covered canvas

wrists

sacrilege endorsed by ignorance

and a bright suburbia exterior

donning a black sweater on a bright may afternoon 

i still see you sometimes

i catch a glimpse of bright red hair

and i wonder if the reason you changed it 

was because you felt like blonde

made you too much like me

(i was never your type)

who picked up your broken syllables 

twisted them into a creed

reciting their poison like scripture

my words decayed with your blonde

because i am bleeding and you 

are gone