I work with young boys who do sex work to survive.

We call them boys at-risk. It’s just a term. It doesn’t mean anything.

Supposedly, I teach art. Maybe.

Suicide is where we live and breathe.

Things are bad.

The cops seem to be on fire these days.

My real job is to listen.

Sometimes I speak with my eyes. Your eyes are not traitorous.

“Do you think I should kill myself. This is where you’re supposed to say: HIV isn’t all that bad.”

But I say nothing.

Mute just mute.

Our eyes meet in one long barely perceptible sigh. A sigh of sighs.

Sometimes we hug.

Sometimes not.

I am not going to tell you if this one lived or died.

Life and death are not the point.

Life and death are always the point.

Do I try to talk him out of it. People tell me I should call the authorities.

People should shut the fuck up.

No one cares about this kid. The margins have eaten him alive.

That heaven’s vault should crack. The weight of this sad time. My eyes have turned to glass.