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:

Dear, Mom

May flowers bloom from your grave.

Your "little man", Hason.