I hate my room
But I never leave it
I can’t hang up the flag but I decorate the walls with pictures of my friends because I can see the pride in them
I hate the town
My name has never escaped it
The walls that tell strangers I’m a faggot
I’ll never know who wrote it, or who knows it
Keep my head down
By, I, feeling of displacement
All in all, headlights on a rabbit
I can never move, I can never get out of it
It’s in my head now
Everything is rearranged around it
It’s tree sap sticky and elastic
It’s a virus – it’s a carrier, it’s a transit
It’s associated with my friends now
Likely the ones who wrote it
A carefully shoved knife in the back
From the people I trusted with it
I wonder who profited from it
Do they still get a surge each time I think about it
Are they happy about it
It’s a sinking feeling
Sinking back in
To the mud I had scraped clean
And the blood I had grated unseen
Since I was thirteen
Leo Grey 