To what do I owe pretty boy? Too much.
I loved him and in my own lesser way I was him. Not by any measure of success, but I too have been wanted and then discarded after my expiration date. My currency had been dimples and swoops in my hair. Potential hangs around like a ghost long after it’s gone.
He’s one of my earliest memories. Rewinding and fast forwarding the same videotape to see his parts. My first secret and it was with myself. The desire to be best friends in the absence of the right language and hormones. A mystery solved in retrospect. Pretty but not a girl. Pretty but not handsome. Handsome was later and wasn’t worth as much. Handsome ruined him. After a certain age the adults stop wanting to playfully slip their fingers into your mouth. The suits quit coming around. The photographers mark you as a special interest. File under: has been.
I guess I should feel lucky that all I became was invisible. Not very far to fall. The rare occasion a guy takes my shirt off these days, he frowns. This shampoo is supposed to thicken hair by at least two times. Of course we can reschedule. Next week? Left on read.
And when did he calls stop for him? When did he meet his replacement? If he had lived in my timeline, would he also be posting pathetic nudes long after anyone wanted to see it? A drop of validation. Does anyone still care?
They found him swinging from the ceiling before he turned thirty. The tabloids noted how high up it was and how much determination it must have took to get up there. I look at pictures of him from the months before his death. Hairline beginning to recede. Puffiness around the eyes. Sharp angles going soft. And I can’t help but think to myself wow he really was cuter as a kid.