"What are you, a girl or a boy?"
It's the older kid whose superpower is to annoy;
The greasy-haired talker who sits in the back
and boasts about how many f****ts he smacks
On his way home every day—"I deserve a plaque!"
His buddies lurk behind him to get a look at the show,
their shirts stained yellow and their pants much too low,
They wait patiently to feast on the leftovers like crows.

My face pales, I refuse to let our eyes meet
which he gladly interprets as a sign of defeat.
He moves closer to me and repeats his question
thinking the pressure will earn him a clean confession
his jeer makes me flinch— "What are you, some tranny freshman?"
My voice like a mouse: "It's not your concern,"
but as soon as I say it my cheeks start to burn,
turing the color of my seat is a trick I'll never learn.

"Don't get too close, it'll infect you with AIDS,"
squak his crow henchmen, their voices like blades,
My arms cross over my chest trying to conceal
all hints of endowment my shirt might reveal
My lungs haven't been working through this whole ordeal.
One day I may have armor for their mouths like machine guns,
but I haven't yet figured out the spell that could be spun
to turn my porcelain heart into a golden one.