I am a woman.
Or so I'm told.
But how can I be a woman,
When the me in the mirror
Doesn't match the me in my head,
Because I just can't comprehend
When I want to peel my skin off
Because it itches at the seams,
Of the stitched in expectations
Of my sex?
When the people all around me
Laugh and say “it's natural”
When I dare to express my discomfort,
And it seems I'm the only one
Who struggles with the day to day
Of existing as a “miss”,
And my name doesn't fit unless it's shortened?
So I strap down my chest
So you can't see it.
But still my face screams woman,
And my voice
And my hips
And that ever damned,
Mother fucking “MISS”.
I know my tits are still there,
Their discomfort physical now,
Not just a mental ache.
And every month I bleed,
And it's like my body's betraying me.
But the whole world says that's just the way it is.
I'm tired of the way it is.
I'm tired of your boxes.
I climb out of one
To be kicked into another,
Not a woman, fine.
So I must want to be a man?
I must want to join the ranks
Of the people that have disgusted me,
And repulsed me?
Of the people making sport
Of the gender I have lived with?
I won't live with a gender,
With your fucking expectations,
Or your games
Or your stupid little boxes.
I LIKE FUCKING BOTH.
I want hairy legs,
But not a hairy chest.
I don't want tits,
But I don't want a penis either.
I want long hair,
Without assumptions I'm a girl.
I want to exist outside society.