SE 14th Avenue Evenings
Our seventeen-year-old phantoms remember the nights
your eyes turned to razorblades that sliced
moral blemishes into our hides and butchered
innocence we believed you capable of while siphoning
Four Loko into your jaded veins.
Your mother kept a leather-bound collection
of her religious machinations,
and you stole it to read to us late at night
as you danced in the velvet of the underground
and to Nico's hollow voice.
You asked if you were beautiful.
What did we learn from prying?
From your birth, your mother wanted
you to be her little girl. Your family sat
in practiced silence as you struggled
with who you were and who She raised
you to be—a boy without
a boy's or girl's soul. Maybe
no absolute soul at all.
But we still remember the nights
you were beautiful.