POETRY: for matthew, whose secrets were worse than I thought

if I think of you
which is not often

I am eight again
cradled in your arms
under the willow
in the ditch
eyes squeezed shut
ketchup blood
on my neck
pretending to die
for the camera

you grew into
a tall soft man
who drove a child
across state lines
and in your mugshot
you look relieved

in our movies
you were always the villain
and more often than not
you murdered me

I wish I had
our old tapes
so I could see
if what you became
was inside of you then

back when you
were beautiful
when I played
your victim
when you
were loved
maybe not
by everyone

but by the camera
and sometimes me