So they say:
I am diseased
because I’m different.
I am disgusting,
for I am distinct.

I am a widow on the wall,
a cockroach in the kitchen.
I am stubbed within the sand,
gouged into the grass.
You hold me in your index,
and huff me out your mouth,
for I, the English cigarette;
am a sickness in your lungs,
and the cancer beneath your feet.

I am black,
I am bubonic,
I am a plague.

They seem to fear my spread,
yet, I am pushed, I am prodded,
I am pummeled down to bone,
for I, the English cigarette;
am extinguished by your touch,
a light, and lifeless ****,
an easy target
caught between your malice
and the cruelty of your words.

Going through the motions
Holding your peace at hand
Until I passed down by you
And you chose to take a stand
Enraged at my choices
Your words came tumbling like sand
Chasing me up
Until you were assured command
But surprise surprise
Your words' intended target rebound
And I, in my subconscious' control, withstand
Words leaving my mouth
Unplanned
Stranger ignored to
Stranger unmanned
Unable to raise your gaze to where
Your ego cannot expand
You leave
And I take in the situation so I don't misunderstand
It was not my actions but
The way I was dressed that had me ******
Cursed, directed animosity at
But you reached me at a point at which
I don't care - and
Looking at you I question why you
Forgot to look at the mirror; tanned Complexion making you and me
No different
And yet you choose self-hatred
And I won't be weaker.
Choose your own battles
For I fight mine quicker.
Won't find me fallen
Because I set the pace with vigor.
Too many a times I've faced your kind;
You're not the first and
You're not the last,
Going through your lot
Will eventually become like
Breathing air.
Choose your battles
If you dare.

This is not what I want to feel
Not what I want at all,
Not when my heart beats softly
Asking for a little warmth.

I've wished I was a boy my whole life.
To get respect without demanding it.
To walk in a room and be part of the club.
To not be seen as an outsider, an irritant.

I loathed that I was treated differently.
I worked my entire life to get here,
believing that it would get better
with the fancy title and, finally, the career.

Now, I've made it. Yet, I still have to demand:
To be seen. To be CC'd on emails. To not be
excluded. Do you know how difficult it is
to have the right title, but not the right genitalia?

You can be competent, intelligent,
the smartest in the room.
But if you aren't the ideal gender,
You're just a pretty face in costume.

We can indeed laugh

at ourselves, the two of us --


if nobody knows.

Young people are poor thinkers
You must first feed them

on the fruits of that one
special tree of knowledge

of what is useful and detrimental
before they know anything

and once they get that
they understand

that it is the way it has to be
if one doesn't want to remain a paradise child

for whom everything must be ready
in a world without dangers

What is detrimental to that, is good
for humanity, although it is a pity

that many adults do not continue to eat
the fruits of that tree