I was sport
for my macho peers,
because I could run
and make sounds like prey
when caught.

Me and my best friend Timmy,
we thought that name they started calling us meant
fat maggot
but I knew that couldn't be right
because I was skinny as
Olive Oyl

They gave us pet names,
I was Sweet Cakes, Timmy was Marshmallow,
because he was chubby and I was
too scared to be anything but nice,
even when they cornered us,
giving us charlie horses until
they were satisfied they'd gotten hard enough,
and stabbing me with a compass point,
my thigh bubbling red with shame.

They were gods and demons to me,
for I was an untouchable,
looking down, making way,
for I knew what they knew:
that some people are boots,
and some people are the
discarded things
boots step on and over.

Though I turned out to be as
flinty as a pioneer,
and, you see as I write this,
a durable witness,
I bear your mark still,
the wound of the brand
having faded to a pink
pale as an old flower
pressed in a book.