I used to be friends with a boy named Isaac.
But Isaac told me that he likes Bugs.
Nasty, crawling, wriggling, chitinous things.
We played rochambeau in class.
I try not to think about that, his hands are probably unclean.

He tries to change my mind. I won’t listen.
What if I start to like bugs?
Disgusting.
Makes me sick, sick to my core.
(Though I’m not entirely sure why)
He asked me to explain but I wasn't sure.
That's a lie.
I'm sure that it's wrong since that's all I've been told.
How could my parents have been wrong?
Or their parents before them?
A written and rehearsed hymn of oppression.
Passed down and
Read aloud against the masses

In a dark place of my core, shackled and hidden. Nausea.
An all-encompassing nausea at the thought of it all.
Boys and bugs, it’s all the same to me now.
Disgusting.