pomegranate seeds

the scars on your hands

fresh like spilt blood that slipped

between cracks in the pavement

as I tripped last summer, grazed by worries

family

work

friends

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

alone.

 

but you’re not.

you have your fears with you,

after all

they never seem to leave

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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