platitudes

trophy boys don’t ask,
are you bleeding?
don’t call to ask,
do you breathe?

trophy boys should not care
if cold cuts of accusations,
so cruelly served,
on a platter of silence,
were fatal or not.

trophy boys should
stay safe, nine to five,
in a predictable world.

it’s a risk to be out there,
wayward women
might tell all,
in drunken giggly fits.

or the conspiracy
of the stars,
might just reveal,
how angels get drunk
on chocolate
and forgot to fly.

no, no don’t bother
to translate pixels
on the screen
into casual concern.

nothing will happen to you
no finger pointing.
no languishing and decaying
nothing will happen

take comfort in your safety,
and uncross those fingers.
mouth those mundane
‘hello, how are yous’
only when you are ready,
really ready to hear the truth.