JOHNNY MCPHEARSON
Is a fag.

Droning voices, incessant gossip
Knowledge prepackaged
In a box.

 A square box.

His name is made up of
Solitary scratches
In the wood.

Johnny McPhearson’s was the only pencil to ever touch that space of
Desk.

My own pencil conforms.
I take notes
 (Because I am good, oh so good)
On top of Johnny’s name.
My pencil doesn’t stray off the paper.

Sometimes, I long to claim my place here.
I feel the wood shredding beneath my
Lead,
Imagine the teacher’s stricken face.
I shoplift.
 (Because I am good, oh so good)
But I do not vandalize.

I can wrap you around this illusion
In ten minutes.
I can show you my
Scores,
Awards,
Personality,
And flawless foundation.
Stolen foundation.

I could rub Johnny off the desk
Had I the desire.
Shallow carvings are no match for me.
“Is a fag”, however, could prove difficult.
Over the years, many people have ran their pencils over the words,
Confirming that which was commonly known.
Johnny is removable.
I will not be removable.

Truth be told,
Johnny’s legacy scares me.
I envy him that coveted desk corner.
I want to be Johnny, but not a fag.
I’d love to
 SCREAM
Until the box is torn apart
And we all come soaring out.

I’d love to claim a corner of this desk,
But I’m too afraid of my cover being blown.
I’m too afraid
Of being Johnny.

Know what I mean?

Because
JOHNNY MCPHEARSON
Is a fag.