Dark Male High School Secrets
They came in packs,
shoulders knotted with gym weight,
smelling of Axe and iron,
boys who scraped knuckles on lockers
just to feel something slice.
At lunch, they stalked the quad like wolves—
every joke a blade,
every girl a mirror they wanted to crack
or crown.
One leaned too long
on the freshman in geometry,
his eyes doing the talking his mouth
was too full of teeth.
They had trophy girls,
not lovers—prizes they unwrapped
with grins in the backseat,
then showed off to each other
like kills in the forest.
Behind it: the need.
To be taught something gentle—
to understand fractions, how to read a face
without splitting it.
One, behind the field house, cried
when I read his paper aloud.
He said don’t tell,
and I haven’t.
Until now.
Copyright © James Mclain | Year Posted 2025
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