Two shirts are packed:
one for my sport

another for my shame.
I wear one, too;
it hides beneath

my hoodie - it's the same
one I've worn each
and every day

so you don't know my name,
but rather, you
know me by my

hoodie, my sign and claim.
I don't shake hands
at school. I don't

like to join their games
or speak up in
class, or high-five;

me, so limp and lame.
If I shake hands,
one might know and-

"Oh, gross!" they'd exclaim;
If I raise my arm,
one might look and-

"She's the one to blame
for that smell, ha!"
I do not laugh.

I have become tame.
I hide at home
pen in hand, and

write the day away.