Work Text:
ode to who?
is it a
man named
Justin who
hates everyone
and doesn’t give
a shit about
who this is to?
or is it to
a young boy who
used to carry a
razor blade in your
mouth to protect your
self from people with hearts as
dark as
your skin
or with heads
as empty as
those dark eyes you had?
no.
‘then who?’
well,
i’ll tell you who it’s to.
it’s to the man who
still picked me up along
side my mother when
the doctor said
i wouldn’t live to
see my first birthday.
the man who
saw, along
side my mother,
my legs get
broken and reformed
into something new,
metal screws as
tough as the
blades he used to
carry stabbed into
my hipbones like
they belonged.
he didn’t teach me
how to ride
a bike.
he taught me
how to be
the bike,
to carry myself
with my mind
the way my feet
never properly would.
this is an ode to the
man who supported
me but
hates to be seen through.
my father, you.