Unscarred Poem by Brian Rihlmann

Grew up blue collar
in a white collar town,
and learned
to despise myself,
as seen through their eyes.

The six inch
summer growth spurt
promised by my old man
never materialized,
and that was another way
to not measure up.

I never attracted
the pretty girls,
but the damaged ones,
the leftovers
and outcasts,
like I was.

I transformed myself
into the guy
who could drink
the football players
under the table,
trained hard for it
with stolen whisky
from about thirteen.

I'd be the one
laughing at them,
holding their heads,
groaning and puking
the morning after a party,
as I chugged a fresh beer
for breakfast.

And I rehearsed
my death stare
and psycho act enough
to make them think twice
about cornering
all 135 soaking wet
pounds of me
in the locker room.

And survived,
visibly unscarred.