Poem: Lines

little boy, so far from home
trapped in a (semi-)grown
man’s body with a man’s needs
afraid to be alone

cutting lines like record grooves
blast away the silence
big big bumps
the better to not hear you with
—my dear—
the better to not hear that little voice with
—my dear—
the one that tells you your own
secrets—thoughts–desires

the one that tells you
you better grow up
and become the man
you cannot escape
—being—
no matter how far and fast
you run.