like massacred halos two days before Easter Sunday

He figures that it'll be alright as he sits on the shingled roof of the toolshed, which is perched precariously on the roof of the school building. The day is dreary and wet and humid like that of a summer-hazed seaside only without the condolances of the crashing waves. He thinks it's beautiful, the way the spears of cement burst, lazy and vague, through the veil of clouds. It was just like how it was beautiful when he first kissed him on the glassed-splattered marble floors beneath the watchful eyes of a stone-set emperor. It had been beautiful how those blue, blue, piercing blue eyes clouded and fogged while black clumps of sight clawed and condemned.1

It was beautiful how it hurt, and how that hurt pleasured better than pleasure.2

It was beautiful how he cried that night, lashes matted and spiked, eyes blurried and bloodied, lungs ragged and asphyxiated. Ragged and asphyxiated until he had to check to see if there were purpled fingerprints over his neck.3

And it was beautiful how he had picked up smoking the next day, blue eyes jaundiced by tobacco.4

He figures that it'll be alright as an arm pulls him behind the shed and slams him against a wooden wall which splinters his neck. Teeth blister his lips. Fingers softly pad up the space between the smooth expanse of his skin and his shirt, ghosting over ribs and joints and organs. He's thinks he hears an artery bursting when his pant button slides loose from its notch.5

And his lungs are ragged and asphyxiated. Ragged and asphyxiated until he has to blame it on the purpling mass of bites above his collarbone.6

It's an incomplete sort of pleasure though, with only clammy palms on throbbing and heated flesh, a shirt only as undone a knotted tie would allow. But it has always been like this, somewhere half-hidden in some half-shadowed alley where the sound of choked half-moans would be half-muted by the half-scrapped cemented walls. The rest swallowed by his own constricting throat.7

And when it is done, he is left gathering his clothes in wide, desperate sweeps of his arms. His fragmented cries floating above his head like massacred halos two days before Easter Sunday.8

All the while thinking.9

About those blue, blue, piercing blue eyes.10