What we are Becoming

We believe in curses.

The names we’ve been called,

The feeling we were being

Overlooked on the playground

 

The whispers behind our backs

The quickly muttered greetings

& sideways glances

Hands held between people

 

But not ours.

We shared our lunch with

No one on a picnic blanket

Meant for two.

 

Is it the color of our hair

Or the size of our frame

That make them doubt us so?

Or is it that feeling

 

Deep in the gut

Bubbling underneath the awareness

That’s let them know

Something sinister is lurking?