Capture all the details you can

for they are vivid

within the broken frames

and vintage photos;

I see a pure canvas of white skin,

unwary innocence,

ignorant eyes,

and an ephemeral fairytale

lived by a mind

still under construction,

still fascinated by a routine

of respiration and mobility

that only presented him

fake promises.

Even behind those lips,

soft as if touched by the angels,

and those eyes — firework-laden skies dancing behind them

— wanted this fairytale to last;

fate designed these games

for us

as it did for him.

As he soared higher into the sky,

his expectations failed him,

driving him into the brink

of his self-destruction;

he became a figure of ridicule,

a candidate of isolation,

an alien in a society

of mundanes;

apparently, he was too

f l a w e d.

And society wanted perfection.

He drugged himself with lies,

hoping they could become real,

but he was high

on the cocaine

that the world itself

brewed up for him;

he became a vessel

of broken dreams,

a golden chalice

of vile poison,

of unwanted pollution

— he was still too

s u b s t a n d a r d.

He was the boy who cried shame.

Shame on him for tainting what used to be a blessing from the heavens!

Shame on him for being a freak — a failed experiment!

Shame on him for uniting two sexual orientations into one freedom of love!

Shame on him for being born!

He was a mistake

never meant to occur.

He was the boy

who cried shame.