Red Limbs
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I see them coming from
behind the layer of mesh glass being lead by a white coat to the table of pastels and crayons where us fuck up’s scribble serenity onto blank page. They’re not not my friends or family, it’s the em aciated late teen’s next to me, the one who’s too lost to look up. It’s his parents I think by the way their deflated walk and hung faces greet him as he shades his leafless tree. It’s not till they are behind him, noting his precise hand, that he turns towards their shadows and without smiling wonders aloud why they came. Wounded, they remind him they are his parents and that they’re here now. He shows them the tight bracelet on his left arm, then the gauze wrapped on his right wrist; a reminder that they weren’t there then. |