by Jessie Nash

At his locker Brad Wright sees a note
wedged thickly through the door,
art paper, rough and torn, drawn –
he knows what’s been drawn.

It’s the same thing twenty different ways,
Brad Wright is Dirt,
and on his better days the hurt is silent
and on his worst it starts a rage,

this one in green crayon, crude and sinister lines,
a picture of a boy made so ugly
it sets his skin to crawl,
punctuated with compass holes

for eyes, and a rip right through
his heart, and underneath his slogan
bold, which can be found
on fences and walls

throughout the village,
throughout the town
Brad Wright is Dirt,
but he smiles, knowing why

they think of him that way.

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Jessie Nash, self-described, is an “androgynous British writer who favours tea over coffee, wasps over bees, moths over butterflies, emo bangs over all other hairstyles, and spells words like favour with an extra ‘u’. Manufactured in a warehouse in Essex.”