I just want to punch something sometimes. Or someone. Like after practice, in the locker room, when everyone’s laughing at some stupid joke, some messed up thing someone said about a girl or whatever. I laugh too. Of course I do. I mean, I don't even — whatever. It’s expected. If I didn’t, what would happen? They’d probably think I’m soft. Or worse. So I laugh. I make my own jokes sometimes too, even if they make me feel sick after. It's just easier than dealing with the crap if I don't. I play the part. I act like it doesn't bother me. But it does. More than they know. More than I want to admit even to myself. Then I go home and sneak my books out. My dad, he works so hard, comes home tired. All he wants for me is to be strong. To not have to struggle like he did. He sees me lifting weights, playing sports, he’s proud. Says I'm a man. He doesn’t need to know I read poetry. That sometimes I just sit there with a book open and feel something, I don't know, something different. Something good. Something that makes more sense than all the yelling and the stupid jokes. I just hide it in my bag, under my bed. Like it’s some dirty secret. Which it kind of is, I guess. At least to them. To everyone. It's just exhausting. Pretending all the time. Being one person there, another here. Like I'm two different people and neither of them feels completely real. I just want to… I don't know what I want. Just to not have to keep it all separate. But I can't. Not yet. Maybe never. What if they found out? What if my dad found out? I can't even think about that. It’s easier this way. It has to be.