The Boy

A happy lad,
a cheerful boy.
This he was no more
a broken child,
the nameless one.
commonly known as whore
this boy was broken,
used too much,
his spirit non-existent.

while in his room,
with all lights off,
a knife caresses him.
but within the darkness,
he cannot be seen.
slowly first he feels,
the blood run down his arm.
though see the wound he can't,
it's warm dampness he enjoys.

The lights flick on,
a silhouette in the doorway.
a screaming voice draws near,
the boy looks up, hardly seeing
his own reflection there
pale and gaunt, barely there
he thinks sadly too himself.

the life he wasted,
the blood he tasted.
slowly fades to darkness,
yet with his one last dying thought.
he wishes he had told them,
what he thought, and how he felt.
now they'll never know,
he'll be gone,
and they'll move on.
never knowing quite how much,
this one young boy,
had loved them.

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