He never gives them names,
These tiny, spiny, vulnerable things that nobody cares for but him.
If they have names, they become real.
If they become real, they can hurt him.
Always sick, always needy, always dying.
He never remembers their names,
These pretty, witty, breakable men that Kinn used to care for but stopped.
If he knows their names, they’re real people.
If they’re real people, he can hurt himself.
Always lonely, always wanting, always drowning.
He never allows himself a name.
Vegas is bold and confident, brash and colourful.
He is small and sad and hurt and weak and afraid and alone,
An echo of his father, a shadow of a monster.
His pa is right about him.
The quiet voice of his mother says differently
(Whispering from her crumbled bones, his brother’s tongue)
She couldn’t help him, help herself.