he’ll say that i’m his favourite nightmare
i know it all too well, the gasps between breaths
and the choking that comes with breathing.
i know white light in waiting rooms
and i know boys like him, asleep
sunset flickers over his face and his hollow eyes
his card-castle body curls into itself,
his hands are an empire of shivering and trembling
and there are shadows the colour of midnight running down his eyes.
he is the damaged good that was declared redundant at customs
and i love using pretty words to cloak the broken
and make them aesthetic masterpieces.
daydreamer, he sits in terraces
with shoelace toes and matchstick fingertips.
i promised to weave him a blanket with his favourite constellations
i promised to put astral sugarcubes in his tea
i promised to paint the stars onto his cheekbones with glitter
but he never believed me.
his existence was halfway between REM cycles,
he was terror shrouded in bedsheets,
i held him when the nightmares c