#boyrute

In it, even the cockroaches die,

And bees no longer build their hive,

The candied fruits just stare with lifeless eyes,

As I sit waiting, hoping someone will arrive.

Orange juice is spilled across the floor,

My gaze is hollow, cold, and still,

While clocks keep ticking, louder than before,

Like a trigger being pressed against my will

A birthmark I once had,

A star on my spine, bold and vast.

It was large, and I believed, so glad,

That wings would soon grow there at last.

But Mother won’t allow those wings to rise,

She’ll cut the mark away with force and spite.

Like crossing out a sign beneath the skies,

And smile at what she’s done, so cold and bright.

“Be a good boy,” she’ll say, her gaze so stern,

Looking down at you with quiet grace.

“But you’re wrong, Mama…” I’ll whisper, torn,

With a wound upon my back, a hidden trace.

“Jesus is right,” she’ll tell me once again,

“Jesus is right—be like Him, don’t stray.

Be obedient, be gentle, be His friend,”

She speaks these words as if they’re set in clay.

And blood will crust upon the aching sore,

I’ll pick at it with trembling, restless hand,

Still waiting for those wings I longed for before,

Hoping they’ll break through, as dreams still stand.