I kept telling myself to write it.

It’s just a poem.

It’s just a poem that I need to write.

Just like I was just a kid.

Just a kid sitting in the bus station.

Late at night in the early morning

I was just a passenger waiting for a ride.

Just some teen.

Like 17 or 18, maybe 19.

Just a teenage guy sitting in the bus station.

Just tryna get to my girlfriend.

Just lost my virginity a few weeks ago.

Just a guy,

Tryna get some pussy

Just like any teenager would.

Tryna get to the girl who was my first kiss

Would later mother my first child.

But this is just a poem

About this other guy.

Just sitting in the train station

In the late night early morning hours.

Just a guy lurking.

Just a guy who said hi.

Just a conversationalist looking to perfect craft

Just crafty.

It’s just a drink.

It’s just a hand on the lower back

Just a back rub relax…

I shouldn’t be writing this

But it’s just a poem.

Just like he was just an attempted rapist.

Not a gay rapist or a straight rapist;

A rapist isn’t a villain because of their orientation.

It’s the action that counts,

It’s the thought that leads to action.

I’m just a man.

Just flawed and hurt.

Just remembering what it was like to be in foreign bed with stranger’s arms holding on to hopes of access

Not granted.

Just a man who escaped.

Just lucky.

Mad because someone else more than likely took the thrust for me.

Someone else knows victim because I clawed a way away.

Just a man wishing I took the breath from him.

No more lurking.

No more just sitting in bus stations causally waiting for new arrivals

Runaways

And forlorn lovers.

I didn’t.

I just didn’t have it in me.

I was just a kid.

Covered in vomit that may have saved me.

Just a bummy youth on a bus stop bench

Hiding shame and guilt for taking the drink when offered.

Just a naive kid who wanted to see his girlfriend.

Just a kid, who now has a poem to write.