spiracle

like a father, he led community water upon my head

it’s always the boys holding midnight baptisms.

summer is a slow torture of lies and mourning the nights when youth felt endless. formative years spent with secrets kept warm in the back of throats.

golden boys, lords of the lake. unable to admit the truth even with water flooding their lungs. bathing in the dusk moonlight, fantasies of tangible love clouding their minds.

boys led to divinity underneath dusk’s knowing gaze. spiraling boyhood pushed backwards into holy water by the gentle fingertips of makeshift gods.

a dead boy is still dead when you lead him down to the creek, when you kiss him. you’ll die if you follow him down this path. his starbright savior won’t come for you.

how much longing does it take to come clean? he is what the water gave you. love has always been a fickle game, no one’s winning.

darling blue boy, you can’t outrun devotion. drink from the well of him. play dead, wait for god to react.

there’s no righteous path to follow anymore, boys continue their innocent deaths in the coldness of water.

a dead boy is still dead even when you try to guide him to heaven, even when you love him.

sullen blue boy, why did you let devotion burn so bright? who knew the season of daylight could be so violent?

a dead boy is still dead when you take him home. no amount of washing him clean will reverse this tragedy. taking him down to the lake wasn’t a sign of mercy. sometimes water is only water.