Packing up to move on again, I unload my old dresser drawer. Digging through the strata of another life, and all the layers, dust from some distant moon. A cheesy poem for my first love, birthday cards from my old friends, the journal that I kept in Scotland, and a small black stone that I found on the beach shaped like a heart. I was saving it to give to someone, give someone that black stone heart.
Who's that boy? Who's that boy in the picture? Who's that boy in these letters? I don't know where he may have been buried, and I don't know why that boy had to die but he did.
Did I..?
The first painting I ever did, years ago, I was just a kid. The diary where I kept my crushes, and the small black stone shaped like a heart that I found at the beach.
I threw it away. Threw it all away. Threw every fragment of simpler times, and I took that boy, I kneeled him down, put the gun up to his head…
Who're those boys, who're those kids on the TV? Who're those girls, who're those kids in the paper? I don't know where they may have been buried, and I don't know why they all have to die but they do.
They all die. All kids die. We kill them.