Backwards Cap by Paris Mather (Ohio, 21)

I watch the comedian
Whose energy is that of a fifteen year old boy
And who dresses like one too.
Who doesn’t need to even have a sense of humor
Or thought-out jokes,
Because, you know,
As they say with a chuckle and
Some sort of pride or
admitted affection I still struggle to
Find the origins of,
“He’s just that kind of guy.”

I think of the kind of person they say I am,
And how there is no equivalent of this man
Who has breasts; there’s no synonym.
And I paid to see him.

I don’t know why
He can
And I cannot.
For him it’s a fun game
And for me
It’s a plot.
​
Surely not.

No, no, you’re correct. I must be mistaken.
It’s by my own reasons that I accidentally created.
Not because I’m unable to be “that kind of guy,”
But because I covered my own mouth with tape
And screamed “why?”

And I must have made up
All the context clues
That were spit in my face
While I was just sitting there.
Would you discredit them
If you really knew
to whom they trace?
Now that doesn’t seem fair.

Surely not:

A teacher who told me I have a resting bitch face,
A drunk stranger at a festival who blabbed at me to smile,
A classmate who told me to chill out,
A coworker who took me by the shoulders and shook me,
laughing, “you’re so tight.”
​
Surely they all
misread my face,
Surely they didn’t mean to make me feel out of place.
There’s one thing they have in common:
they’ve all been “that kind of guy” before.





Paris Mather is a 21 year old writer from Cleveland, Ohio. For her, writing is a necessity rather than a luxury. As a student at Case Western Reserve University, she spends her time writing, reading, playing piano, cooking, and living through emotions that usually turn into poetry.