I was a child with apple cheeks
when I learned my art was worthless
unless kept within a stranger’s frame
and I would grow up to realise
it never stopped at the
development of fine motor skills
when toy stores gave me gaudy idols so piercing
fluorescent pink dyed my soft palms
and turned my fists into regal waves
I was too young to imitate
and too poor to afford the surgery
putting the stick in my *** to fake it.

I had dreams of touching the bottom of Mariana’s Trench
and bringing clouds home to my Mom to decorate her kitchen.
If you told me then in a few years
my life would always centre around
whether my blankets were blue or pink
when I took my first breaths
or be defined by the chasm in my body
I didn’t even know I had
I’d question not for the first time
if adults put their brains in jars when they stopped being kids
and dye myself green with grass stains.

Fifteen years later
I am a muddled grey,
an “anti”,
a prefix implying rebellion
when all I ever wanted
was a better chemistry set,
some peace and ******* quiet,
and the wholeness I never knew
would be so painful to miss.