men are iron-boned in silk coverings.

wanting skin striving to be less porcelain,

but they bruise a bit too easy. they learn

to act like they are not black and blue.

the way they move their hands about

themselves and others is the heart of

all problems: touch too much or to be

touched—learned to be at fault.

but under every blue moon, a man will

be blue and black—the man who isn't

showing the signs. cries red streaks

because he cares too much, he learned better.

he wants to feel sunshine, but he doesn't

want to take it from the walking dreamers.

he knows they speak in his language. he

hears them. he understands. he learned more.

otherwise, he knows he will find no reaching

hands because he will be the killer. a victim

of nothing with hands covered in his blood.

he will learn the angles of his mug shot silhouette.

he doesn't show his blue and black. also, he can't

speak to match. also, he could scream hollow words

into listening caves and never hear an echo. maybe,

he might learn to save his voice for better times.

that moment: when someone might finally

realize him nearing a graveyard—lingering on

cliff edge and watching his skin match

the twilight canvas. learning he is a canvas.

his body, not his—the creation of a no good

artist. he, who discovers himself doused in his own

blood bath, is all alone now. because he is a man who

could not turn iron fast enough.