A poem on adolescent trauma

I was but a teenager, so naïve,
and you were no gentleman, you see.

My vision was obstructed as such that I could not observe those multitudes of billowing banners of crimson for I was blinded by the charismatic affections of you, a much older man.

Despite having caused me immense suffering, many moons passing as I sat fraught with inner turmoil, not once did you utter in my direction a genuine apology. If I were to hazard a guess I’d say you likely never had expressed to any soul true remorse.

These days people throw around diagnoses like confetti. I, for one, have no desire to participate in this trend and yet for you I will make an exception.

Had you been present when Narcissus met his end, you’d have gone first, and if perceptive, he’d have learned from your mistake. So perhaps henceforth we ought to refer to those vernal blooms as blossoms of Mars.