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can't be touched
men are iron-boned in silk coverings.
wanting skin striving to be less porcelain,
but they bruise a bit too easy. they learn
to act like they are not black and blue.
the way they move their hands about
themselves and others is the heart of
all problems: touch too much or to be
touched—learned to be at fault.
but under every blue moon, a man will
be blue and black—the man who isn't
showing the signs. cries red streaks
because he cares too much, he learned better.
he wants to feel sunshine, but he doesn't
want to take it from the walking dreamers.
he knows they speak in his language. he
hears them. he understands. he learned more.
otherwise, he knows he will find no reaching
hands because he will be the killer. a victim
of nothing with hands covered in his blood.
he will learn the angles of his mug shot silhouette.
he doesn't show his blue and black. also, he can't
speak to match. also, he could scream hollow words
into listening caves and never hear an echo. maybe,
he might learn to save his voice for better times.
that moment: when someone might finally
realize him nearing a graveyard—lingering on
cliff edge and watching his skin match
the twilight canvas. learning he is a canvas.
his body, not his—the creation of a no good
artist. he, who discovers himself doused in his own
blood bath, is all alone now. because he is a man who
could not turn iron fast enough.
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Derek is a senior in high school in College Station, Texas. He has been published in journals such as The Daphne Review and Snapdragon Journal with upcoming publications in Polyphony HS and The EcoTheo Review. Outside of poetry, he enjoys playing the violin and photography.