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Dominic Creed

Are friends. I think of the party
with the jacuzzi and the girls in bikinis
and the one girl that didn’t care I told her
I was gay. I didn’t know what to do. Blue.

Are enemies. I think of the party
with the gingerbread man and the broken
bench and the one boy that called me
a faggot. The gingerbread man missed my head. Red.

Are mature in their adolescence. I think of the cocktails
that made the roof of my mouth feel like marshmallows
and the tears spilled beside the empty glasses and in
the toilet water. I feel my face glisten with a tear-stained sheen. Green.

Are explosive in their silence. I think of the summer,
that time I got cider-drunk and watched the stars.
Constellations became my eyes and cider became my
sustenance. Galaxies collapsing in on this moment aglow. Yellow.

I keep them all close, even the ones I haven’t seen for a while,
but I can’t watch them all. Some slip away. Grey.