Crush

Every time I met Tyler something would break.
His stepdad’s dirtbike, no helmets on, straining

to pull in the burnout. His chest on my chest, my
wrist in the way. The weight of my first cast. I liked

how he etched names into it, his curses and loops.
We chased streetlamps in his Acura, faces slipping

in and out of focus, my plastered arm hanging
in the darkness waiting for a cornstalk to lash at it.

My wrist still pops. I can’t sleep on my left side, rest
my arm beneath someone’s head. I liked the bleach

in his brown hair, I only bleached mine once—I didn’t
look like him, I didn’t look like I wanted to look. It’s harder

to be him, to be the one who breaks.

Jon Woolwine (he/him) is a Chicago-based writer studying poetry through the Poetry Center of Chicago. He is an active volunteer gardener for the native prairie initiatives throughout the city and helps run a monthly poetry workshop with a handful of friends. His work has appeared in River Heron and Gyroscope Review and is forthcoming in Passionfruit Review.