I wish I was Old Roger.

I have, on countless nights,
negotiated with death,
begged for the silence of a grave,
a place where the heart
would no longer have to explain
why it hurts.

I have imagined the earth
gently closing over me,
the soil keeping my secrets,
and the world finally learning
how to live without me.

But something troubles me.

*I think death no longer*
*accepts the souls of broken boys.*

Perhaps heaven has run out of room
for the ones who were never given
enough room to breathe.

Perhaps the grave, too,
has learned to turn away
those who arrive carrying
more pain than a body should hold.

And so we remain

the living dead,
walking among the living,
laughing when we must,
bleeding where nobody looks,
and learning to call it strength
when all we have done
is survive another day.

Tell me,
where does a broken boy go
when even his escape
has become a closed door?

Where does he bury the parts of himself
that the world killed
but never had the courage to mourn?

I wish I was Old Roger.

At least, perhaps,
he knew what it meant
to have somewhere to go.