Smoke rises from his shining brow,
Filling the room with Death’s breath.
Lies beside his gray, still hand.
His parents never loved him.
The kids at school made fun of him.
He was picked last for baseball.
A scratch running across the right lens,
The thick black frames,
Crooked and chewed at the ends,
Rest neatly folded beside a letter.
The letter simply states,
Gray and red ooze onto the linoleum floor,
Spattered with black,
His face shines.
The hole in his forehead releases
A tiny drop of life.
Now he’s a statistic,
He ran away.