parenting by Oscar Turner (15, New York City)

[Content warning: self-harm and suicidal ideation]

this morning my dad caught me
beating on myself 

---

fist trampolining off too-fat thigh
i could feel his gaze scoffing my
heart to my stomach 
& he preened me to the floor
but only brittled away the
vellichor of my room; no 
calloused fingers
snugged round my own
because 
men don't cry, which must
mean men don't die either- 
not at our own hands anyway:
the boulder doesn't divert itself 
the lion is no cannibal- 
that's how he taught me to
talk: kamikaze conversations like
a predator mauling a herd,
jawing through awkwardness 
​and spitting it out all red- 
but even lions have their prides to walk
beside 
and i'll have enough pride that i,
I 
needn't rag nor drag
everyone 
down, wash them away like
spilled salt to levitate my
chest-my chest never even
heaves because 
men don't cry- 
but die? that, 
we will fall 
forward 
to do.