No One’s Boy: The Passed Around Child

No One’s Boy: The Passed Around Child

He was dressed in neat things,

shoes that shone, jumpers pressed,

fed at the right time,

spoken to like a guest.

Handed off with a list—

no fizzy drinks, bed by eight,

his bag packed tight with rules

but no room for fate.

No hugs for his bruises,

no arms when he cried,

just a pat on the back,

and a screen to confide.

He watched other kids

build castles in sand,

while he sat in the lounge

with a stranger’s hand.

No tent in the garden,

no snowball fights,

just ‘be good,’ ‘sit there,’

and long, quiet nights.

He learned not to ask.

He learned not to need.

Learned that love

was a luxury, not a deed.

And now he walks past

the parks, the swings,

sees fathers laugh

and mothers sing.

But he doesn’t smile.

He turns away,

that boy still silent

to this day.

Don’t ask him to open up.

He won’t.

Not for you,

not for anyone.

He shakes hands,

he smiles,

says the right things

at the right times.

He’s done it all his life.

You call it guarded.

He calls it trained.

Try growing up

on a rota,

and see how much you trust.

Passed round like spare change—

whoever had time,

whoever could manage.

Always safe,

never seen.

He doesn’t do birthdays.

He doesn’t do hugs.

Don’t talk to him

about your childhood dog

and expect him to care.

You think he’s cold.

Maybe he is.

He watched love come and go

without ever stopping for him.

Now he’s got the car,

the house,

the name on the door.

And what?

It doesn’t touch the sides.

People say

they’re proud of him.

They don’t know him.

Not one bit.

You want to know what he needs?

Nothing.

That’s what he was raised on.

That’s what stuck.