I Know What He’s Saying

But I like girls. Always have,

even in elementary school.

Sandbox dust in my nose,

jungle gym–blistered hands.

Hanging with the guys,

but glad when a girl’d

ask me

          to

                    play

                              something.

Yeah, mostly the same games

when it came to

handball and foursquare.

But comfortable.

When you got hurt

girls’d ask

              what

                         was

                                wrong.

Guys would ignore you,

call you names

when your eyes watered

at the pop of a soccer ball to your face.

If you couldn’t stop the tears

they’d yank out more words,

like “crybaby” (or worse), to

            hit

                        you

                                 with.

And I loved the way girls wore their hair.

Ponytails bouncing, braids smooth.

Loved the colors they strutted

across the yard: bright purple, pink.

Loved other things they played,

like animal hospital or house.

Loved the sound of their voices

when

            they’d

                         call

                                to

me.

                                                          Still,

a shadow lurks

near the

edge

          of

                    my

                                head

whispering,

“You like girls too much,

and not in

the same

          way

                      everyone

                                            else

does.”