Young Mungo

His outsides looked as dead as his insides felt. It seemed only right.

“Not everything good goes bad.”

Mungo wanted to believe that

“I listened to your mixtape. I stand in the dark at my window and listen to it every night. I thought you said it was all top forty but it’s only one song over and over.”

“I felt embarrassed. I lied.”

“I love the Smiths.”

But they twisted together, brow to brow, mouth on mouth, and everything was like peeping through a crack in a door: an eyeful of alabaster and rose, the glacial blue of inner arms with their veins like violet rivers, the chafing at James’s elbows that Mungo wanted to kiss so badly, and the fields of fevered carnations blooming high on his pale collarbone. The boy was all growing bones and unblemished skin; a paint chart of the softest whites.