this isn’t my first rodeo
and by that i mean this
isn’t my first poetry slam
but my hands still shake
and sweat breaks out on my
upper lip and slides
down my spine
like cold fingers

the judge
the white
cisgender
heterosexual
old man judge
looks at me like
he’s trying to figure out
what i am and i want to
tell him that he’s not
the first person to ****
their head to the side at me

and my shoulders hurt
under the tight fabric
of my black chest binder
and i wonder if it
is showing through the
fabric of my white and pink
striped button up

i run a hand through my hair
bright and blond
and in your face
and wonder why all the poems
i read and write
fall under a category
that is not strictly
“family friendly”

maybe it’s because i
am a deeply angry person
from living in fear
since i was seven years old

or it’s because i
decided i was going to
be as loud as i could be
about being transgender
and queer
and mentally ill
because being quiet
felt like giving up

but this judge does not care
about how it felt to
kiss a girl for the first time
to fall in love with a girl
and then to fall in love with
that person again
outside the constrictions of gender

this judge does not care
because he cannot understand
and he does not want to
and this is a poetry slam that
i am not going to win
because the cards of the majority
are stacked against me

but i don’t care about
not winning
because my voice doesn’t shake
when i out myself to a roomful
of people in a town that
i am afraid to use the men's room in

and in that moment
i am not afraid
my voice is strong and loud
and these people are listening
and that judge
can’t hold a candle to the
bright light that burns within me

and just as i know this
he knows it too