Scars embroider his knees

like tally marks.

Remnants of an appropriately active

12-year-old's life.


The ring around his neck,

his mother never quite scrubbed away,

a forever stain banded black and blue.

Mortician's paint

should finally pat it clean.


Twin incisions cut deep and clean

across his chest above a third

plunging down the center of him,

together posed upon his skin

like questions unfurled

in hopes of closure.


Bending the bars of his rib cage

until they split wide,

a bone blossom unveiling

visceral petals,

a blush of stale humour.


His lungs are strong,

a certain shade of bubble gum,

and would have ballooned

just as well.


His heart is sufficiently volumed

for all the life still trapped in it,

seems too light to have succumbed

to 90-odd pounds plummeted.

The End

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