I, uh, unearthed a poem I wrote when I was 17.
We heard voices chasing each other behind the wall,
seeping through cracks of peeling paint.
Fine drizzle on a tin roof swelled to pounding drops
As murmurs exploded to shouts that shattered into
tangled sobs boring holes through the concrete,
reaching us transfixed, eyes wide, ears shut.
The next day, a photograph of a sleeping child–
his taut face hiding in purple shadows.
Blood squeezed from the newsprint as we read
until the guilt hung around our necks like a noose.