"If you're a guy, why do you carry around a purse?"

I stare at her, hard.
My gender therapist, questioning me?

To carry my ****. Why else?
Don't impose these stereotypes on me.


Also,
my jeans don't have pockets.

you told everyone you had a girl
tried to control every aspect of her world
but what if she didn't feel the same
what if she was they or he some days

somedays, she wants you to tell her she's pretty
even if you hate the way she looks
and somedays, he just wants to laugh with his mama
even if he hates the way he looks
somedays, they need to hear you say you love them
because they don't feel like you do
somedays you don't have a daughter
is that okay with you

you warned her of how boys were stupid
but told her she'd marry one someday
so what if she decided not to
what if she didn't feel the same

somedays, they dream of boys who'll kiss them
even though they hate themselves
and somedays, they dream of girls who'll hold them and want to be held
even though they're a little chubby
somedays, they want to have a partner regardless of what that partner wants to be called
somedays your child doesn't want anyone at all

is that okay with you
does it make you mad
if i weren't normal
would you understand
because this song is about me
it's about how i feel
it's about what i am
fluidity is real

somedays

There are days when my body doesn't
Support me doesn't
Hold me close and
Protect me.
These are the days that I am a clay figure
Molded by clumsy hands shaped
With curves where there should be flat
Planes where I exist to create a mask a
Persona of who I am who I want to be.
These are the days when I want to avoid
My reflection yet check it to make sure it
Matches what I want to see.
These are the days that my reflection Never matches what I want to see where
My insides twist in disgust and I want to
Crawl inside myself and hide from the
World. These are the days when I wake up
Two hours early to prepare to layer first Binder then undershirt then shirt then Shirt then sweatshirt then jacket because
The bulk makes my body a secret.
These are the days when my body is a
Secret that I never want to reveal when
My steps are unsure and my face is set to
Boy-mode.
These are the days that I watch guys and
Imitate them stealing their walks hoping
I'll steal their identities so I don't have to
Live in my own.
These are the days that my heart fissures
When I am called "her" when a pronoun
Becomes an insult and
These are the days that I wish my mind
Wasn't so dead-set against my happiness
That I could just feel "girl" that I could
Just pretend it away.
But these
Are the days that I fight hardest to be who I
Am and fight to educate others and
Imagine a day when I won't be misgendered or gendered at all.

Cover this body with layers upon layers,
Each one hiding the secrets I don't want
To tell. They yell my ***, Scream it out
Shout it and others follow suit.
Four letter words may make violence but
S-H-E causes earthquakes inside me.
My curves curse me to wear my **
Chromosomes like neon paint
Warning sign: This person was born
Female. Born into an imaginary category,
Forced to conform. My mind
Is at war with the mirror eyes staring back
Those little details sticking out
Highlight them, cutandpaste to another
Body.
Maybe this bandage will keep me safe from
The gender police maybe people will be
Confused and not ask Maybe they will ask
For once and not assume.
Maybe I'll lose enough oxygen that it won't
Matter.
Matter is all I am, atoms twisted together in
Disarray and how can you call that Anything but what it is.
I defy this binary, refuse to walk the
PinkorBlue tightrope.
Let me fall and land in purple.
Let me live in the inbetween.

“There are only two genders.” My dad.
“But in other cultures-” Me.
“They don’t apply here.” My mom.
“Why not?” Me.
“Because I don’t like it.” My classmate.
“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. It doesn’t mean I don’t exist.” Me.
“It’s against God.” My church.
“I think God loves no matter what.” Me.
“You’ll go to hell.” My priest.
“You’re so hateful I’ll see you there.” Me.
“You just want attention.” My depression.
“Please...I just want to be myself.” Me.
“You can. Just so long as you fit what we say.” Them.

I am not an “It.”
I am a person,
Just not the kind that fits your views.
Do not attempt to dehumanize me
Without consequence.
Not on the sidewalk,
Not in church,
Not at home, Nor school.
I am,
“They.”
“Them.”
“Their.”
But never
“It.”