My friends hid their ******* magazines.
I hid my poetry,
my dog-eared philosophy books,
tucked behind jackets and empty lunchboxes.
They shared their pages
smirking,
pointing,
laughing.
I sat beside them,
nodded at the curves I couldn't feel,
while words burned holes in my chest.
We all spoke English.
But I never understood a word.
Not theirs.
Not mine.
What the ******* hell is wrong with me?
"****" and "Hell"
they stuck to my tongue,
became my Favorite prayers,
my rebel hymns,
my answerless questions.
Fifty-five years.
And nothing has changed.
Still hiding poems.
Still faking laughs.
Still wondering:
What the ******* hell is wrong with me?