Boys Don't Cry
Weeks after the storm, the waves run high, tossing white-crested mounts against the still-lowering sky. He wades, further and further out, until the grey waters form eddying pools around his knees, his waist, his shoulders.
He revels in the sting of the salt in his wounds, his nose, his eyes.
I cannot help him – I cannot –
Now to you – I am dead –
On the shore, someone shouts.
He laughs. The sound, like broken glass, torn from his throat and flung above the roaring torrent.
Out here, nobody can hear him scream.
Beneath the waves, nobody can see the tears fall.