shaun t

You never cared that Shaun T was gay

Because every day you were on your knees

Or your stomach

Or your back

Tightening your core the way he told you to

And forcing us to join.

It was never fun.

In fact I hated it.

Adults with taught bodies,

tight in the stomach

arms and legs lean and tan and glistening from sweat and gasping for air

the same way I was in my teenage body.

Pudgy around the edges,

ugly in the ways

my friends weren’t. 

Maybe you did care that Shaun T was gay.

The same way you cared what I wore in middle school,

checking to make sure my skirts were long enough,

my jeans looser than the ones I would change into

and out of before tennis practice.

I had three closets: one at home, my locker, my tennis bag.

You made sure my home closet was to your liking

with jeans a size too big from Burlington,

Justice tank tops under cropped shirts I wanted to wear

but you never knew about my tennis bag or my locker

and you never knew about me.

About how similar I was

to Shaun T.

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