The Visitor

I'm not sure how he made his way through the front door, and the closets, they are also locked tight so he found no entry there. But the boy came in--crouched down, bony suntanned shoulders and blonde straggly hair. If I was to taste his skin I knew the flavor would be dried saltwater and formed plastic track. He crawled into the living room and sat Indian style on the long shag rug. I could hear him breathing, and then, the low sobs of the emotionally disturbed. I won't comfort him. I don't have what he wants. If I'm lucky he'll go in the back, jack-off, and fall asleep. Sometimes I hate myself for the self awakening that took place. He's a real fucker this kid, and he won't leave me alone.