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1. There's a beautiful boy with heaven in his eyes, like one of those old greek tragedies, and bones made of asphodels. He finds me under the stairwell, bloody and bruised and he asks me with solemn eyes, who did this to you? And I do not reply because beautiful boys like him will never understand why broken boys like me cannot be near him. Even holding his name in my crooked, unclean mouth feels too hot and holy.
2. When we think godlike, we mean him, when we think divine, we mean him.
3. Our history teacher is spitting out words like revolution, blood, and war but I am staring at the beautiful boy seated at the desk beside mine. I stare at the constellation of freckles sprinkled across his rosy cheeks and I stare at the pink plumpness of his mouth. All I can think is look at me.
