Acts of Destruction

"Many who have ongoing feelings of fear or anger or hopelessness are never assessed or treated. Too often, they get our attention only if they reach a behavioural crisis." - Sue Klebold

I am actualised in acts of destruction.
First it was frogs in the garden,
their insides glinting in the sun,
mouths formed around a painful O
like so many saints in relief.

Larger people came and went
all through my childhood, one marked "Mum"
and one marked "Dad",
though neither vessel justified
the emotional weight attached to those marks.

Their joining made my flesh.
But you can make a frame
without giving it the engine
that would make it a car.
So I made myself, in painful Os.

I followed another one home last night.
A woman, I mean, not a frog.
(I've graduated now, you see.)
I followed her from underneath
a cinema marquee.

Black heels, short skirt, lipstick.
Objects with which she's made herself
as I'm left in the chaos marked Unmade.
But I'll show her that she's Unmade,
not I. I'll do this by unmaking her.

I have a type, of course.
I'm straight and normal, me.
Just like the other boys,
even if, sometimes, I'm honest
in the dark, when it's just me and she.