He’s Fine

Distant eyes, far in thought -
Tense, awaiting echoes to form themselves into tangible feelings and words.

A face, becoming wrought
With confliction and acceptance; addiction and repulsion.

Once, twice, mouth opening; inner turmoil festering like an ugly sore.

Focused eyes, hiding thoughts -
Nonchalant, cohesive sentences charging to defence.

A face; filled with arrogance and pride, not so quiet fearlessness draping fearful eyes.

Thrice, open mouth felling questions with a smirk and simple words:

"I'm fine"

And no-one questions him. Boys don't have feelings; they're tough after all.

He doesn't tell them how his father drinks, his mother is gone; his grades constantly sink, and life is rough.

He doesn't understand business; straight lines and numbers are foreign to his imagination of abstract twists and colours.

They jeer when he's collected by a girl dressed in revealing clothes, whistling as the tyres screech. "Lucky lad!" They cheer - it doesn't matter that it's his sister trying to make ends meet; that there are tears on her cheeks.

Neighbours peer over the wall and tsk, muttering about times when teens didn't wear jeans and long sleeves in summer.
It doesn't matter why he's wearing them, why he has to hide his marred skin; because he's fine.

Snores from the living room - sometimes the threat that he’d “better get down here or else", and it doesn't matter that the rent hasn't been paid in months, because he's got a roof over his head for now so he's fine.

It doesn't matter he can't focus on his work and the pressures getting to him and he'sstruggling-hecan’tbreathe-heneedstoescape.

No-one has thought to put away the empty beer bottles but that's okay because he's an artist; see how he paints the walls a perfect shade of red, and look at how it arches!

He always thought art was strange but beautiful; but now he understands, because he is strange and beautiful and twisted too.

He decides to create a mosaic from the glass; he's always wanted to do one of those, except it's not a kaleidoscope of colours - just varying shades of red from deep burgundy to watery incarnadine.

Now there's nothing left in his palette; his lips are blue; but there's beauty in blue too, he thinks.

Content, he lets his mind rest; his first and last masterpiece achieved.