they keep calling you “little man” like it’s a compliment,
like it’s not a fucking warning label they’ve already stapled to your skin.
like “little man” means you’re supposed to stare at girls only,
like “little man” means you’re not allowed to look at the boy on the bus
with the soft mouth and the chipped black nail polish
without feeling like you just did something illegal. you look at boys, girls, and the ones who say “fuck your boxes,”
and your stupid traitor heart does the same fucked‑up flip every time.
you hate it, you love it, you want it, you’re scared of it,
it’s a car crash and a first kiss and a horror movie all at once.
you stand there thinking, how the hell is one small, messed‑up heart
supposed to pick one lane
when every lane looks like home and hell and “holy shit” together. every adult glance says you’re off, broken, not right,
like there’s a right way to want and you missed the fucking memo.
they call you “little man” when you nod along,
when you laugh at the wrong jokes,
when you choke on the word “cute”
because it almost came out about the wrong person. they don’t see the nights you lie there pissed off at yourself,
calling yourself every name they’d use if they knew the truth.
freak, fuck‑up, disappointment, mistake.
you practice being straight like it’s a sport you’re bad at,
running drills in your head,
don’t look at him, don’t look at them, don’t stare too long at her. the only time you feel actually, painfully wrong
is when you try to lie about what you like,
when you force your mouth to say “she’s hot”
and swallow the “he” that almost slipped out first.
when you nod at their bullshit,
laugh at their slurs,
and feel that sick little twist in your gut that says,
this is not you, this is not you, this is not you. they keep calling you “little man” like it’s a test
you’re already failing,
but the real fuckup isn’t that you want too much,
it’s that they taught you wanting was a crime.
