To the boy they called girl
When you told them your preferred pronoun,
I saw their eyes sharpen with malice, their teeth
ready to sink into your skin and fill you with
venom herpetologists have yet to discover.
School bathrooms were untrodden territory;
you never made it halfway across and soon,
you
stopped
trying.
You were hugged by nothing but slurs,
and though I tried to call your name once
in the hallway, the name you said was realer
to you than pink-clad, French-braid Taylor,
it ricocheted off the walls and died in silence.
Official records state that there are no boys
named Ty in our grade, but flesh and tears
scattered in empty locker rooms whisper
of a boy with deep eyes and a crushed soul
who tried to be sunshine but found
nothing but rain.
To the boy they called girl:
The first time I saw you smile,
constellations exploded into the
crinkles on the sides of your eyes.
I had never seen a more beautiful person.
I should have told you then.
I hope it is not too late now.