Rogue
In second grade, Kendra, the storybook
blonde girl from the manicured subdivision
who took singing lessons, said to me, quiet
and cruel, in the closet with cubbies
we kept backpacks and coats in, that I was
weird. Her eyes squinted when she said it,
like she was trying to pinpoint the exact freckle
or tremor or Kmart crewneck that contained
my weirdness. Jenny with the light brown
pixie said I stared out the window
too much. And my teacher told my mother
I never spoke in class, wouldn’t volunteer
to read aloud, though I could read.
And they were all correct about me,
I feared, as I spent recesses playing
make-believe with myself, Frankenstein’s
monster roaming the playground, searching
for my promised companion. Some days
I was plagued by diseases the babysitter told me
she wanted to cure—Dimondale Elementary’s
first Ebola victim transversing the monkey bars
at record speed, blood dripping from my eyes.
Saturday mornings I would wake early
and start the coffee for my comatose parents,
curl up on the couch next to my big brother,
who I suspected was weird, too, and escape
into cartoons. My favorite was X-Men
because the mutants got to be heroes
for their weirdness. My hero
was Rogue, who was untouchable.
If you touched her skin, she absorbed
your life force. I never liked it
when grown-ups hugged me. I knew
it was dangerous to get too close,
that it was best to keep your gloves on
if you didn’t want anyone to get hurt.
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