by Ahja Fox
There is a boy in the library eating
blue and purple erasers today
his smirk is an open wound
When he sits, an onyx rosary
swings from his belt
you can’t label this pain not yet
not in the presence of Jesus’ thorned crown
That is what your mother would say
that Jesus had it worse that he died
for the boy across the room who
holds your voice with his fist
(calls you "sister" which appears more distant than cousin somehow)
And he brands you bittersweet
as if your body is a Hershey’s bar
split diagonally
You will kill him in your thoughts
then put him back together again
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