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July Gray Nov 2020
I know my face is feminine
I know everyone 'knows' I'm a girl
I know in this confusing christian society
You have to keep to the binary

And so I don't expect them
To look at me
And say "He"

But just once
Maybe they'll hesitate
Before saying "She"
That could be enough
July Gray Nov 2020
I wrote a poem into the wind
Improvisational melody
And promptly forgot it
I think the wind kept it
um you might have noticed I changed my gender. This is a kinda new thing, and I can't promise it'll never change again. (but then, changing is kinda the point, genderFluid)
but yeah. :)
Bedroom’s painted fisherman’s blue

There’s a cut out of Hayden Panettiere naked in a pink bikini with a hula-hoop on the back of the door

Copies of British Vogue desperately hidden underneath the bed accompanying an empty bottle of Glen’s

Manchester United duvet cover and matching pillows to boot

The bin’s filled with pre-packed home-made lunches from the last six months

Wardrobes a collection of ill fitting blue jeans bought for me by grandmother and football jerseys for teams that I’ve never even heard of, yet let alone see play a single game

Uniform ironed and sitting out ready for school on Monday at 8am sharp

***** clothes cover mostly all the floor smelling of Lynx’s finest even though there’s an empty laundry basket just waiting in the corner to be used

Inside one of the woolen blazer’s (that is way too big for me) pockets a single unopened ****** and an AES 256-bit encrypted USB stick

An old PlayStation 2, with a single controller; games including FIFA years through 2004 to now, Tom Clancy’s Splinter Cell, and GTA.

Blood red shoplifted lipstick that’s now melted hidden in the little secret compartment at the back, meant for network expansion.

Artemis Fowl, Alex Rider, and Harry Potter all adorn the bookcase

Physics, Maths, and IT textbooks remain firmly closed on the desk in addition to a smashed phone from me and Daddy’s last “physical altercation”

Lady Gaga’s “I Like it Rough” is playing in the background on repeat…
sarah crouse Jul 2020
My gender can change at the flip of a switch
They say it's impossible They say it's just a glitch
They ask if I'm male, female or non-binary
I'm all three I'll tell them finally

that's when They start to frown
and look at me like I'm a clown
"you can't have all three you must choose one!"
"the science doesn't support it, ***."

how do you explain it then
when my gender decides to flip again
when I go from someone who loves herself
to someone who can't look at himself
when I can't stand to be either gender
I refuse to stand by and be a pretender

Is it too much to ask for you to respect me?
To let me be myself, to let me be free?
To ask me what my pronouns are
when you see me at a bar?

my gender is mine you will not correct it
you will not make me feel like a misfit
because I know who I am, what I am
there is no right answer to this exam

my gender is fluid
don't act like you're clueless
because I don't fit in a neat little box
I don't care if you think its a paradox
because you don't get a say
in who I am today

I'm not nonbinary
I'm not trans
I'm fluid
***** and Quims should be worshiped.

For whichever you have, dictates how the rest of your life shall be.

To those who biologically have both, how like gods you seem to me.

To those who spiritually have both, what cursed and barren, in-between lands stock we.
thispanman Apr 2020
Dress, makeup
Heels, leggings

Too-big pants, no makeup
Oversized shirt, men's shoes

Regular jeans, little makeup
Sweater, tennis shoes
No gender

Fancy shirt, tie
Skirt, heels
All gender

All these
But I'm
Still me

And that's okay
Genderfluidity *****

Especially when nobody respects you for who you are.
thispanman Apr 2020
Oversized clothes
Dresses galore
Both of them
Fit to one gender

Sports jerseys
Baggy shorts
I want those
but I'm a "girl"

Perky dresses
Lots of makeup
I'm told I must
Because I'm a "girl"

Anxiety fills me up
I need to be perfect
I need to be a daughter
I need to be a girlfriend
a wife
a mother

Why can't I be a child?
A lover?
A ren?
A human?

Why do you have to choose for me?
I'm not a girl, nor a boy, but a human who wants to be respected for being myself.
carter Mar 2020
i am a female
oh now i'm a male

days go on
and i'm still changing

everyday's not the same
for i am not choosing to stay as one

i am both
nobody can change me
V Jan 2020
Reassignment: Verses in Fragments

i. awake

Piercing, ruthless -- no maybe relentless is better. Awakening from a grasp so harsh, tethered to icy ****** of expectations. Words of coercion and malice ring, slamming like thunder, fluid with heterodoxy: you're an it huh? look at him -- it's a him you wanna be right?

    Laughs, indecent and rioting, and that ruthless charade of orthodox behavior hurt him. Hurt them. Awake to who they were. Hard to grasp, terrifying yo admit, punching the ticket to their own match.

    Tears stretched past the brims of swollen eyes, enduring each hurled assault of syllables -- how do I stop it?

ii. begin

Refuge in a screen, in the safety net of a bridge reality. Asylum found in the hands of similar misfits. The insults of it from verse i. -- it?

    Heard so many times perhaps it had been a level hard to be clear of. Bubbling and morbidly sticky at the surface of their own secret.

   Hands clutched to their skirt on Sunday for church, hands digging into the flesh of their thighs on a Saturday night. Under the escape of another human -- another person not from the retrospective circle of heterodoxy that suffocated them.

iii. epiphany

Saccharine puffs of fingertips bloomed on the bridged hips. Tears or resentment upon discovering the geography of an anatomy assigned without intervention.

   The revelation of gestured dreams, honey coated and dripped in the cloak of youth, cinched with the bodice of their crippling environment.

    What are you? -- Asked over and over, trying to present for a world of alienated oddities and and disorders. Clutch again. Fingers deeply dug into the hems of their skirts, in the fabrics of hidden flannels and binders wrapped in secret around the channel of their chest.

      Fluid. Changing. Unsure spoken in response.

iv. shadow

Hide behind the familiarity of cyclonic and disposed love and consciousness. Stumbling winds and scraped egos are less than transparent, seemingly an impossibility among the issues they feel.

     The dark cloak embodies the identity, the presentation and realization of being trapped.

     Monitoring the standards that wouldn't categorize them as the genuine way they see themselves, presentation the frugal decoration they dangle to the orthodoxy of society to stay hidden.

v. persona

Fingertips fidgeting with the sirens of noise, laughs and loud voices fill halls, centers. They weren't meant for this, meant to be so forced into the social structure that terrifies them.

     Pads of scarred flesh rooting from the bottom up, eyes glimpsing the possibility of others around them.

   Those saccharine touches of loathing and the journey for love and acceptance remains fragmented, continuous, and fluid.
ConnectHook Nov 2019
I wet the whistle first, then blow
(my algorithm will let you know—)

And then my bot will rob you blind
in the name of humankind.

Which means there exist no more than two genders;
both of them are Truth's defenders . . .

and Eric Ciaramella didn't **** himself.
Did someone mention Effrey Jepstein?
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