Bad Craving
Jun 22
1 min read
His back carries
patterns of boot
prints.
Stories held within
the spaces of
his ribcage.
His hair once long,
used as a tool
for dragging
him upstairs.
The full weight
of his body
stretching
every strand.
His feet
too tiny,
too weak,
to stop
his body
from reaching
what lay beneath.
He knows
what a tightened hand
against flesh
can do.
He remembers
how breathing
could easily
be stopped.
How his feet
hovered over
the floor.
Grown, but trapped
inside his own mind.
Sometimes he craves
the violence
from those times.
He's never told anyone that.
He's afraid it might mean
he's really bad.
