oh him? we call him the bull.

we all know him, he's lurking everywhere.
he's the boy with devil horns and calloused hands.
i've never seen him smile.
where is his light?

madness consumes him.
he sinks further into it with every passing second.

fighting is second nature for him now. his knuckles . . . bruised and bloody.

the darkness in his eyes gives you chills
but what caused it?

A. pain?
B. anger?
C. sadness?
(note: all of the above)

we all knew his father too.
a wretched . . . dirty man who loved his booze more than anything else in this godless world.

(every father before him passed down this pathetic pattern)

i don't think anyone was surprised when his wife disappeared.

small towns know everything. they just stay silent like cowardly sheep.

i feel sorry for bull boy sometimes.
he deserves to feel safe.
something he never felt in his life.

maybe just a touch of the shoulder?
should i?
a letter might be better.

to the boy made of pain and destruction . . . i love you.