A throat is a harp full of strings
meant to be strummed,
not cut.

The body a song spilling of sea and hum.

So Billy,
When I read how they found you dangling in the barn
I wanted to know who told you your neck
was a branch to swing from.

I know what it’s like to think your skin
is made of shingles, but you were
no roof to jump from,
kid.

This is for anyone being told to live in a shadow
crack the glowsticks in your halo
burn so beautiful that if the sun
ever look at you he’d go blind
that there is no bully out there bright enough
to dim your shine.

Billy,
Just because you loved a boy
didn’t mean your town should have tried to straighten your notes
when your throat has always been a harp to strum,
never a branch to be found swinging from.