buried boys with dirt in their mouths speak of diamonds and death, language forgotten with the taste of bitter earth. buried boys speak no more. they lay cured and restless, fetal like curled rose petals shriveling over the sun's wrath.

but those buried boys knew secrets. not the kind whispered over the phone by teenaged lovers, not the kind where smiles shined and blinded the hearts of others, not the kind that were tucked behind ears and outspokenly giggled.

those buried boys dug and dug into a tunnel of sorts, secrets that were meant to be killed for, meant to be slain for, and they took the excitement, the thrill of consuming one's secrets so dark that the night has weeped before them, so dark shadows quivered in their quilts, so dark trees bled sickly sap, so dark black became a paler shade

they picked them apart by its bones, testing and waiting, and desiring for a confession, a truth too bleak to be spoken that throats dried at the thought hearing the merely uttered words. and so they tested and pushed. and threatened.

that's how they became the buried boys.

the four posh boys of a nameless academy, strangled star spangled blue and red against their american white skin, pillaged bare like newborn babes on sunday mornings, with mountains of dirt piled high in their putrid mouths, as their victim cried wolf, weaving howling songs of false sorrow.

take a boy's secrets and be buried with it alive.

~art~