—
They always walk backward
into the darkened room,
deserted building,
unlit alley,
moonless swamp.
Backward, always backward.
Eyes wide, they swivel
their heads side to side,
but never even glance
in the direction of
their creeping, backward steps,
never look where they are going.
Just turn around for god’s sake!
See the obvious lurking
there in the shadows,
behind the door, under the stair.
See the reaching fingers,
the approach of unspeakable cruelty.
But no.
You hear the rasp of breath,
the threat of metal, and still
step backward into the deserted places,
smelling of secrets packed in mothballs,
mildewed towels in lockers,
cigarettes doused in toilets, urine in stairwells.
Backward into the narrow lessons:
what it is to “be all you can be”,
who the few good men are,
what diamonds are for,
what loss is,
and power, and shame.
Backward into war glorified,
Blue Angels ripping the sky.
Backward into the poisonous worship of guns—
so easy to get, to stroke, to point, to eat.
Backward into the waiting arms of the hungry beast
that eats dreamers, oddballs, outcasts, freaks.
Walking backward into that darkness,
do not spin Mayberry myths,
say it could never happen here until the very moment that it does,
ignore the complicity of pancake makeup on bruises,
confuse having and holding, loving and owning,
equate guns with justice, and strength, and manhood.
Walking backward into that darkness,
do not claim surprise; you haven’t the right.
What else would you expect from this boy?
This too fat, too thin, too tall, too short, too loud, too quiet,
gentle, geeky, gothy, boy.
This boy called faggot every, every, every day.
What else would you expect from this boy?
—
Get the best stories from The Good Men Project delivered straight to your inbox, here.
—
Photo Credit: Getty Images