Track Star
Screaming fear ripped through his lungs
and he dove for the only cover he knew,
the razor blade taking haven
at the bottom of his top right sock drawer in the bureau.
Pulling it across his ankle,
once, twice, three times.
What a morose little ritual,
and it drew plenty of blood.
Crimson stained the inside of
every single sock he still owned,
but the truth never did bleed through
his favorite running shoes.
He woud bare his arms,
and make first place on shotput,
on the mile run, on the 800 meter dash,
he would hug his blonde little girlfriend,
he would go out and party
with the guys, on all the Friday nights.
His whitened smile, his gelled up hair,
and black socks, and running sneakers,
they all worked to hide this lonesome, lonely fear.
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