Paul used to be like a brother,
my closest friend.
But then I turned him over,
and betrayed the most precious
thing a teenager has:
I lost his trust.
Our disparate characters
were somehow compatible,
for what is the protagonist
of a bildungsroman
without a mentor, an idol,
an antagonistic personality,
an immaculate ideal?
With him, I could let myself
be carried away.
His adventurousness I admired,
his skills I envied,
and with him, I was
closer to the life I desired.
But like a golem, that life
wasn’t mine. And I learned
by rote
to find my own.
Alone.
Reality is my worst judge,
and it did not recuse itself.
In the elevator, we committed
our crime.
Our shenanigans, a foolish action:
a spit, two spits,
two times.
We laughed, no remorse.
We didn’t run, what for?
Then a strong hand took us both
from the neck.
We were dragged back
to the scene of our crime,
like a dog is brought
to the place
it has peed.
Fear took my soul.
I could see the punishment
ahead of me, waiting at home,
if He discovered what I’ve done.
Engrained in my mind
was the clashing sound,
the red and the itch,
a belt, a strap,
the whimpering, the fright.
Back to reality,
in the scene of our crime,
where we spitted not once
but twice,
I urged myself to associate
with the démarche
raised by panic,
a commission of cowardice
marching alone at the cry of
“It was not me! It was not me!”
But yes, it was me, and yet
Paul cleaned the mess,
alone.
Nothing more from his side,
but his piercing sight,
a heart of stone.
That was the earliest time
of many to come,
in which my fearful soul
washed away my dignity.
And my first loss was Paul.