My Armor Was Insufficient
Bra, underwear, blue jeans, white tee, leather jacket, sneakers. Small enough to make her sway but ornery enough not to tip over. Plain hair, odd eyes behind thick and enormous glasses – a predetermined nerd. A hand on her waist, fingertips inside her underwear band. And hand larger than her face envelopes and crushes her left breast, seems like it’s trying to rip it off. The breast remains in place, a fresh bruise.
One of them used to tell me that they didn’t pick on me because I was different or in love with girls, it was just because I was me. I could never understand what the difference was. She could never understand why persecution is violating, and not a legitimate hobby.
The alien hands grab my ribcage, the shield for my heart, and leave more bruises. A place no one sees, but you can’t ignore the ones of others eyes.
Every day in the locker room they watched me. Watched me undress an put on my gym clothes. I was quick out of vulnerability, but so quick that they would know I was scared.
