the
plip
plip
plip
of a slowly leaking
showerhead and the smell of old metal and damp concrete
and the sour pinched laugh in his voice when he says ugly and chink
and the scrape in my throat from the passage of my rage
and the clang when his back hits the locker door
and the warmth of the soft white skin of his throat under my fingers as they tighten tighten tighten and i don’t care anymore i don’t care his pink tongue protruding from behind his teeth and my jaw explodes and the world tilts and when i look up again the blue eyes behind his crooked glasses are shocked and scared and trying to be defiant and i was fifteen but if i had been born that day i’d be able to buy a whiskey now and would it be better to feel nothing than to keep living here after all these years and did he know i’d some day tuck my own kids into their beds while i’m still stuck here in this cold empty locker room just him and me did he know do they ever know

No. Of course he didn’t know. How could he? He was only a kid, himself.