spring, 1987

My fist is still clenched,
swollen and bloodied
with several busted knuckles.

His face looks worse than mine
and I am glad.
A bully should look worse than you

when you are 15 and angry
and terrified of the truth
that he has thrown in your face.

You’re a fucking queer

The tops of my favorite pair
of Adidas are splattered with mud.
I bend down to wipe them clean,

bring my eyes up slowly to stare
into those of the bully
still lying on the ground.

He turns away, lips trembling,
right eye blackened
as he whispers into the dirt

You’re still a fucking queer


Copyright © 2013 by Christopher Chaffin – All rights reserved



About cjchaffin

Wordsmithing is my passion. I eat, sleep, and breathe words and phrases, only to regurgitate them and pray that they are better off than when I first ingested them.
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2 Responses to spring, 1987

  1. Bernadette Blakeney says:

    This piece, I felt, was a story shared by many of our youth still today. The words are so simple, yet hurt us the same. Wonderful piece relevant in 2017 as it was in 1987.

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