My mates and I agree on one thing:
It’s easiest to think when your hands
Are curled up in fists and everyone
Knows you for your loud words
Or louder punches.
Your ruffled up uniform,
And your abandoned tie.
And no one knows about how your mother
Screams like glass shards or how
You lie alone in a dark room sometimes
Because you’re too much of a man to cry.
And that the word whispered around is not a label of such,
but a verb of what you do
Which makes it not as bad as the other words
you’ve been called before.
And we all agree (though we don’t say it)
The fun never lasts as long as the scab or the pain
or the tears that you wish you could shed
in a half made bed.
But we don’t know what else to do
and no one would believe us if we changed
and to be honest I don’t even think we would be strong
enough to brave the laughter like the others do.
And so we agree.
Marcellus (they/he) is a queer, neurodivergent teen exploring family, love, and religion through their words. They love nature and cats, occasionally engaging in fencing sabre.