Saw the bandaids covering your olive skin.

Sit up straight, grown men don’t cry. Keep the tears locked in your throat and yell with your fists. Watch you squirm for a reaction and all you get is my silence- it’s a dance we do well so you might as well lead.

Do the seasons changing still make you sad? I can always tell when you’ve had enough sunlight because your olive skin glows like the golden hay fields that border this town. You’re growing crop circles in your mind again. I can see the movements behind your eyes.

You stuck with a fear and let it burst through your pores. And the contrast of the pale bandaids against your olive skin is like a puzzle for me to figure out. I’ll never find all the damaged pieces, but I think the hurt begins with you. -AMT ©️