inside

I. Inside.

His eyes are wide & innocent, abused. He hides in a warm, smoky black sweater and lets people trample him if they want to. But there is always that quiet indignance. It is clear that some day someone will love him very much, but not here or now. He has carved a place for himself out of necessity in corners and in shadows with all the other people who don't belong anywhere else. Those people aren't like him at all. He is much too wise, though no one has any idea what kind of remarkable, quiet thoughts are hiding inside of him. Anything better will have to wait.


II. Empty shell.

His softness is no longer warm & inviting. It has turned to a cold, rotten mush, repugnant but somehow disturbingly reminiscent of something more appealing, like a peach left lying in the sun, thick and black in its decay. The wide, innocent eyes have been abused to the point of becoming hard and desperate. The indignance that delayed his eventual fall has slowly disintegrated into resignation, and he is tumbling. The black sweater hasn't been washed in days, maybe weeks. It smells of stale smoke, old beer, and things that are more disappointing to place. He has no pride. Every day is a scramble for just a little more for nothing. His presence itself is a comical kind of begging to be laughed at, tolerated only because it began so innocently. Now the few people who were charmed by his ill-mannered enthusiasm avoid eye contact and walk slightly faster when they see him. Where before he was tactless, he has become crass and appalling. The secret dreams that left him desperately hopeful for something (anything) else have somehow been cast aside and lies have taken their place. There is nothing left.


III. Reach.

Now i just want to hold him. bathe him, cut his hair, wash his clothes, fix his glasses, cook him dinner. What kind of child?