A Space Between
He stands against a pink so loud it edits the room, crowned in tulle, organza, chain link, and a riot of yarn the color of every candy that ever spilled onto a driveway. The pink ski mask softens the threat the mask is supposed to carry; the black satin ribbon at the throat ties it shut like a gift, or a confession, or a noose styled by someone with taste. He is the saint the party prayed to without knowing his name. The one who took the blows and let the sugar fall out. The one the children ran toward, blindfolded, swinging. There is something tender in the bare chest under the chandelier of jewelry, something defiant in the soft tattoos drifting across his sternum like flowers no one planted on purpose. He is dressed for the kind of celebration that breaks something open in order to begin. He is the offering and the altar. He is the candy and the stick. He has been hit before. He came back anyway, in pink.