Pimples poke from skin like hard nipples through
a t-shirt. Slick palms with skinny fingers try to
seek solace in grinding against themselves.
As you dance, awkward sixteen
year old me stands quiet in the closet.
My mom tied my bow tie too tight
and my dad’s button up was too loose,
but I combed my short, greasy hair
while you walked across the dance floor.
Overtime, the disco ball changed to strobe lights,
the punch bowl was just a glass with vodka in it.
When I tried to speak, my braces cut
the inside of my cheek so my words made
me sound drunker than I actually was.
Though we were twenty-seven in this scene,
when you are queer you are always just sixteen.