Andray

WEDNESDAY Karofsky wasn't at school the next day, and Wednesday I hoped would be the same.  But it wasn't.  I approached my locker in the morning to find my face Photoshopped onto a woman's body again.  I turned, apprehensive of Karofsky being nearby.  He wasn't.  I peeled the poster off (thankfully they hadn't used rubber cement this time) and opened my locker. Right when I had opened it, something like a baseball bat hit me in the shoulder.  I fell to the ground, back to the lockers, to see Karofsky walking backwards, staring me down. "See ya after school, queer," he said in a nonchalant voice. I didn't say anything.  I couldn't.  I w

Wednesday As I opened the door that connected the boy's locker room to the gym, yelling met my ears. Someone yelled "—little boy who can't handle how extraordinarily ordinary you are!" And then there was almost absolute silence except for maybe the sound of heavy breathing, but I couldn't really put my finger on it.  As I looked around the row of lockers in front of me, I clasped my hands to my mouth to keep from making a sound.  At first I didn't understand what was happening- it happened so fast.  But then I realized what I was witnessing.  Karofsky was kissing Kurt Hummel.  Kissing.  I whipped my head back around the lockers and so

I can see it in their eyes The way they hate me for it. This thing so deep inside of me That I wish I could not be. This hope and prayer that I change this thing so deep inside That it leaves nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. Because I wish every day that somehow this is not me. That this struggle that I face on the day to day Will disappear tomorrow. But my hope runs dry in this desert place For fear of parents, friends, my God, I cannot face. Because the truth is: I fear I have become the very thing that I hate most, The very thing that invaded my unwilling host On that warm summer day so very long ago. And what do I do now

I am from beautiful green mountains Long walks in high altitude With hidden streams and enclave meadows I am from mountains muffled under eternal white silence Where wind is the only scream one can hear And footsteps soon disappear I am from rolling green knolls High midnight cliffs And warm summer nights I am from a place not of this world Made perfect in my imperfections Made new and born again I am from a place of no side stepping Of not “pondering at the pool of popularity” A place of enduring, enlaborment, and empowerment I am from try your hardest and harder Of narrow roads and rough places Of few companions,