The late November night smokes a pack of
Hershey cigarettes and it's as if nobody
understands how those toxic jokes
make me feel trapped in
this claustrophobic place.
So I have no choice but to
go home and pick up my boxing gloves,
preparing myself for another round of bullying.
You may call me proud but don't exaggerate.
I've been pushed around and
shoved into dumpsters long enough
to know that discrete strength is
the key to survival.
It's about teachers turning a blind eye
and death threats in the cafeteria.
Baby, it's about roller coaster feelings
hidden inside books and the urge to
scream plastered on our faces
with invisible tear-spray ink.
Yeah, these paper towns are
black holes for guitarists and song-lovers.
You stopped me on the stairs
one biting afternoon at school
and though it didn't seem like it back then,
boy, that moment was epic.
Tapping my pencil against the faded desk,
for the first time,
it was hard to focus in class.
I couldn't help replaying your
words in my head
and the the striking image
of your wintry irises like
oceans of turquoise and
illuminating my thoughts.
Baby, those days were about
hallway jocks and slushy cups,
stools in coffee shops and our
shoes dangling off the darkened stage.
Now some things have changed,
though people can still be jackasses.
But navy patches from my blazer are
taped to your locker and a devious
smile pulls at the corners of my mouth
when I remember the plaid tie I left at your house.
See, baby, we don't need to throw this
treasure away because of a few nasty comments.
We can bury the sun in the piney forest
beneath mounds of stubborn snow and
sing an anthem to all our underdog buddies,
toasting the impossible because it's about
two boys from Ohio caught in
a battle against stereotypes.
New York City dreams escape
through the window of your
theater bedroom as four o'clock
finds us with caffeine and show tunes.
Lying on the wine-tinted carpet,
I can't take the tedium anymore.
You smirk from your spot near
the stereo and I get up off the floor.
I pin you against the table
with one hand and switch
soundtracks with the other.
We dance like delirious dorks,
hyped up on potential glamour and
hushed secrets torn from your journal.
My lips race across your concrete jaw,
while your warm campfire fingers press
against the sensitive flesh of my neck.
And holding your hand over my heart,
boy, I can safely say that you are
the electrifying blue spark
that tears me to shreds.