I didn’t have the words back then

Only knew he was too old, but
he made you happy. And I was desperate
to see your face find light again.

I let our friendship suffer
in the name of your healing. The closer he came to you,
the further we drifted. Our distance
weaved like friendship bracelets, threads of omissions
and half-truths. The lingering details concealed in blush,
the worry strung across my face.

I didn’t know how to crawl back into your trust. Or maybe I knew
your secret was too big to be trusted at all.

We all met him as friend. As tutor. But I saw
he was a leech.
Wearing parasitic smile at the family gathering, feeding
off your youth and grief.

I looked to the adults around us to intervene. For the protection
they had always promised. But when it came down to your mother,
her mourning only understood burials.
And so she hid the facts before her,
underground.

I try to remember feeling close, before he arrived. Your hand in mine,
gazing down at your dad’s open casket. Gripping
for solace in that church. His waxen sallow body, laying waste
to who you once were.

I wish I had never let you go.
Never let you look for God down a grown man’s throat.
Maybe if I had told you that you’re holy enough, you wouldn’t have believed
the vulture’s song.

Did you know we’re the same age as he was then?
Every time I see a teenager, the rage finds me.
We were children, still unsure
in our new bodies and feelings.
And even if no one said it then,
I know what to call him now.

Hadley Dion is a writer, audio editor, and filmmaker from Los Angeles. Her poems have been published or are forthcoming in Anti-Heroin Chic, FreezeRay Poetry, Jupiter Review, Remington Review, Bandit Fiction, Roi Fainéant Press, Witches Mag, and more. In her free time, she volunteers at her local cat rescue, listens to ghost stories, and crafts punch needle rugs.