mike writes poems or whatever

to the boys who beat me up in the locker room

i can still feel your kicks and punches. i forgive you. i can forgive those kicks and those punches but i cannot forgive the words you spit at me, I cannot force them back down your throat or take the air that said them out of your lungs. these are five things you said to me before I blacked out on the locker room floor.

one. this town is no place for trannies. i wanted nothing more than to come up with a clever retort. i wanted my words to slice you deeper than the ring you wear on your right hand but the blows you were landing to my sides ate my voice and all i could think about was who taught you to say this. who on this earth full all things holy would force feed you hatred that you regurgitated onto my limp body?

two. you're going straight to hell. this one made me let out a small chuckle that sounded and felt more like a wheeze because in that very moment you were breaking your own god's law; mark 12:31, The second is this: 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' There is no commandment greater than these.

three. how does that floor taste? it didn't taste great. it tasted like blood, sweat, and tears. and not the gratifying kind I referenced when I finished a stupid doodle or spewed out another useless metaphor to symbolise my internal war with myself. it was blood pouring out of my nose and mouth as you just punched me harder; it was sweat, flying from your arms and foreheads has you tried to keep your strength high so I knew not to set foot in here again; and tears, as I cried "why? why are you doing this?"

four. keep your mouth shut pretty boy. I still wonder wether or not this was meant to insult me, I'd accepted it as a compliment so many times in the past that I became numb to it. in that moment I realised that pretty was all fine and good; until pretty did something you didn't like.

five. faggot. this word is carved into me. i had almost stopped the bleeding. didn't your mom ever teach you not to pick at scabs?