etherbound Magazine

I live in the speedometer of my mother’s car,
forever remembering the times
sitting in the back seat
staring at the night sky
and seeing street lamps dance away.

The Boy

It’s nights like these that make me glad I’m alive.
The house is settled,
silent.

I sit on my bed,
feeling the pressure of my body against the mattress,
my hear pushing blood
throughout my body, to my head,
telling my hand to write.

Nights like these bring clarity.
I was born a boy
and now I’m not.
That boy haunts me,
a shadow
found in the dark corners of this room
or among the dark stubble
covering my body.

The boy doesn’t speak.
He never does,
he lost his voice long ago.
He scavenges and digs
for any artifact or image
to remind me of his presence.

I thought this was to torture me.
Constantly reminding me of who I once was
or make me think I still am.

But now I’m not sure.
He’s watching me now as I write,
and behind those eyes is a sadness,
looking on an image he can’t have.

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