Outcast
Uvalde, Texas, 2022
I wish I could
swallow my tongue,
drown the lisp,
and tie my stutter
into a knot. The muscles
in my mouth twitch
as if I want to scream
for help before drowning
in a pool. The mirror
in the bathroom
bounces back the hate
of my fourth-grade class.
It’s like I was supposed to
disappear, but couldn’t,
and instead, I was forced
to walk the halls,
sit in a classroom in a body
not my own. I want
to cut deeper, carve out
the stares, the finger-pointing, the punches…
The sink is dirty,
a pocketknife is stained
with blood, I taste bile,
I haven’t eaten
since yesterday.
A red balloon is in
my throat. I can’t eat,
knowing the taste
of mom’s boyfriends.
My collarbones protrude.
I hate that woman,
her mother, too.
I learned to fight by thirteen.
No one would dare
say to my face, “You’re ugly.
You’re so poor. Why do you wear the same thing every day?”
Like little devils barking
at my feet, shooting
spitballs at the ceiling,
I am more than gum
stuck on the bottom
of a kid’s shoe.
Everyone will know
I saved big for my eighteenth birthday.
You can’t just pretend
I don’t exist.
I have a secret.
◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆
Kenosha
Wisconsin, 2020
Tonight swells
with mobs. It’s like
Call of Duty but in real life.
I’m wearing my army green T-shirt and a baseball cap.
I’m like a soldier,
a white monument,
a moment in time.
Officers thank me
with my rifle over my back.
Kenosha needs me ––
there were trucks burned,
walls graffitied, shops vandalized
for two days straight.
Rioters have lit Kenosha
on fire, and last night,
a car dealership got
burned to the ground.
Not everyone has money
to repair damage from evil.
My job here is to protect
the people and their businesses.
Dad lives here.
Mom drove me here.
I’ve shot targets, know
how to aim. The barrel
gives birth to wind.
Last year, I turned sixteen
and ran a fundraiser
for Humanize the Badge.
A parade of shots bolts
into the air …
Quick! Run!
Show me your hands!
Others have guns, too.
A man’s after me!
Point blank, I shoot.
Under a streetlight,
I see a head, an island,
a river of blood. His feet
open like palms for prayer.
People are shouting
at me. My knees slap
against asphalt, my rifle
goes from waist to hand.
A handgun gets close.
“Get back!” I shout.
His heart erupts
into a red mass. Another
stumbles to his knees.
Words bounce off
parked cars. My pulse
is throbbing in my ears.
I slow down to raise
my hands to the police
in riot gear. With cotton-
mouth, I shout,
“I just had to shoot somebody!
I just had to shoot somebody!”
A police officer looks
at me, shouts, “Get
back home!”