The girls with their ribs as prominent as
a skyscraper on a sunny day,
The boys with scars, dull and silver-purple,
healing ones that are a new-skin pink.
The girls that glance up occasionally, preoccupied with
balancing the mountain of books they hold in their arms.
The boys that keep their gaze low, afraid to be found out for
what they are, for liking other boys. Afraid to be beaten.
The girls who look stone-faced in the open, but when in the privacy of their
own home, they smooth down the cat's fur, and cradle the baby.
The boys who cook, whistling as move around the kitchen in fluid movements,
shutting themselves within at the sound of the door slamming.
The girls who are scared but be brave anyways,
who still wear blue lace kneesocks, and who refuse to bow down to any king or queen.
The boys who will be mocked for it, but even so
wear black, skinny jeans to top it off. Who blow lungfuls of smoke out their pursed lips.
The girls who wear pastels, who are normal, who seem to blend in.
Who can entice anyone, who can be completely ordinary- it's their superpower.
The boys who wear the expected t-shirts and jeans, who wear sneakers and
play sports. Who are so goddamn unnoticeable- because it's what makes them special.