March twenty-fifth is when I missed your tender kiss.
You left me at age 6
I become more pretentious.
I became the bully to dear friends of mine
Told secrets that were lies
Tried to find myself in a desolate world
And I knew you were looking down with your hands presed against your eyes.
You knew I was terrified.
I become the bully because the world was my bully
I become "the girl" because I cried in public.
I couldn't hold it in.
I had to let it go.
No outlet to put the plug.
I went to you, put the flower in your dirt brown hair with your stone grey band.
I wanted you to know that I would always be your little man.
I didn't know what to say, I was ashamed and just cried as I walked away.
Tears of regret that wouldn't stay shut, I needed to ask for help but didn't have the guts.
I tried to cut.
My cousins were Jamaican, but I was not. They could speak the language...
while my tounge was tied in a knot
They called me "White Boy" cause I was born in America
They made me feel ashamed.
My father called me "gay" on two occasions.
I stayed away from girls cause I was already in relations.
You were the only woman I wanted cause you were always there...
Even in death, time was spared...
Yet I was ashamed.
Nearly nine years have passed and you still haven't returned.
But the bud in your hair has surely begun to turn.
Your red rose has bloomed, I no longer want to come with you.
You know things about me that I only want to be kept between me and you
So I may not be okay from time to time, but at least I have the heart to say:
May flowers bloom from your grave.
Your "little man", Hason.