Bug-Eyed Space Thing - Gabriel

A boy stands at the corner,
looking through the rusted gate.
The school stares back, a painted prison:
four walls, a roof, and lots of hate.
Why? he wonders to himself.
Why's there so much hate?

He doesn't want to go inside,
to face their hail of staring eyes,
to hear them hiss and whisper snide,
cruel things to one another.

Because his mom's illegal:
she did something very wrong.
She came to live, a crime.
And that's why every single time
he walks through that gate, he knows
that he does not belong.

They say that he's an alien,
like he's some bug-eyed space thing;
like he's not even human;
like he's somehow debasing
their school, their world, their home:
planet Earth.

Finally, he moves;
he shuffles through the gate,
through the yard and through the doors,
past the walls that hide the hate,
through the rooms and crowded halls,
the only brown in lots of white.
He ducks his head and hunches,
trying to stay out of sight.

He feels so strange, so not-the same:
so weird, so out-of-place;
like trash
upon a white, white floor –
a bug-eyed thing from outer space.

The End

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