the scars on your hands
fresh like spilt blood that slipped
between cracks in the pavement
as I tripped last summer, grazed by worries
but sharper than that,
although we’re only fifteen,
you having the upper hand back then, with four
months of breathing more than me.
how much longer that lasts, I couldn’t say because
you wear those fears around your wrist
locked into the skin
death will end our lives
but the fear will destroy it. you weigh up
calculus and counter-top drugs
sitting in class and sobbing alone in your room.
I hear you sometimes
I hear it in the quiet of your red-rimmed
eyes, unlike the space where your coffee used to
stain on your favourite lunch time table.
it’s not like you drifted
away from me. one day it’s summer,
my shirt red from blood and pomegranate seeds,
the next you’re gone, your mind a foreign territory
and I’m left at lunch
but you’re not.
you have your fears with you,
they never seem to leave