It was middle school, and we
were the tough kids who cut ourselves
and hated our parents. We showed each other
our thighs in the bathrooms and wrapped
our wrists at lunch time. We were invincible,
soaking up pain like a plant soaks up water,
a wound here or there to keep us
from snuffing ourselves out entirely,
just a cut or a burn to keep us alive.
I can't remember his name, but it was
middle school, and he was one of us.
He called me Kitty and meowed at me
from the seat behind mine. He painted his nails.
In the middle of class, he announced to everyone
that he was bisexual and wouldn't hide it,
then the teacher took him out
into the hallway.
In town, he followed us around, saying someone
at home had tried to shoot him but missed,
and now he thought he had a concussion.
He rode his bike like he was racing against time,
peddled and pushed, standing up
and bobbing in the air. He ran with his hands
thrown behind his back to cut through the wind.
We bumped into him at the park one day,
our gaggle of pre-teen girls circling him like birds.
It was middle school, and I think
he was crying. We took turns
comparing our painted nails.
We talked to him in private one by one,
writing out our phone numbers
on a scrap of paper for him to call us
whenever he needed.
It was middle school, and we
were the tough kids who cut ourselves
and hated our parents. We were invincible.
We cried like thunderstorms and shut ourselves
in our rooms at night. We bled, and we cared
about this boy in the park. We let him pester us,
and we walked him home.
YOU ARE READING
These People and I
PoetryThis year for National Poetry Writing Month, I want to challenge myself by mostly writing about people I wouldn't normally write about. This could include people from my past, present, or even future. I'll be adding a new poem by midnight each day i...
