I have something I have been dying to tell you.
For some time I have known something about myself that most of you don’t.
I know myself better now than I ever have before.
So I have decided to end my hiding.
to let myself live in the light from now on
I spent far too long wondering how you would react when I told you.
Now I know,
how you react is not my choice
it is yours alone
I am who I am
I cannot change and I don’t even want to
I am not ashamed
I am no longer afraid
Your acceptance and love is valuable
but I can stand on my own feet
when I my feet get tired and my legs grow weak
they will catch me.
I am loved
I am accepted
And love overcomes all.
So when finally break down the final wall of this cage and I tell you
Whether you choose to love me for me
I will be okay
I am loved
I am accepted
and I am strong
We are strong and we are not going away
I am the same me
I will speak
I will be a voice for the voiceless
I will be me
and I will never be silent
This poem was written during my coming out process. The line of ****** is meant to be a place for any sort of confession or truth to be placed. For me it was, "that I am ***" but this line can chance for any person or situation. If you are working on coming out or anything else like that please feel free to use my poem if you would like. I would like to ask for credit of some sort if you repost. Thank you for reading. x
I hate labels.
so you may ask me why do you compulsively put words and purposes and dates and times on everything you have.
I hate labels but I love organization.
The problem with labels is they rarely tell the whole story.
Labels are short, just a snapshot of the essence that the thing or person boils down to
but I don’t believe anything can really be that simple.
Labels can make everything easier.
You get the main point, the thing that stands out, FAST.
but that’s like starting a story at it’s ******, you get no previous information and that high point that holds so much meaning if you've read the entire story turns flat.
A flat character doesn’t grow or change or feel all that much but they usually have a label.
Labels turn real multidimensional, complicated, interesting people into flat characters.
He is not ***.
She is not a cutter.
and He is not transgender.
They are real people and you cannot possibly fit a person into a single worded description of the thing that stands out about them or makes them different.
That is not enough for me!
The *** guy likes ice cream and romantic comedies, he's afraid of commitment, that scar is from his own blade and he volunteers on Wednesdays.
The cutter is seventeen and she lives with her grandparents. Almost everybody shes loved has walked away.
She has hair the color of sand at the beach and she wants to work in security at the airport so she can finally have control over who leaves and who stays.
The transgender man never felt trapped in the wrong body, the world just told him that his body was wrong. He’s a freshman in college and nobody ever told him how hard it would be. He calls his mom every night because he knows she worries and he cares. He has skin the color of caramel and he desperately wants to get married.
I hope you now understand that a label is never never enough.
You could argue that I’m afraid of being defined and of defining others with just a word,
but if you ask me a fear of labels is a very legitimate, considerate, and justifiable fear to have.
Labels are simply not enough.
And that's why I hate labels.
Apples will be cantaloupes
depending on their nurture;
and so I cherish rainbow hopes
for our collective future.
Oranges elect their hue
improving Nature’s seal,
while pronouns stifle what is true
suppressing the appeal.
Fruits may choose to change to nuts
and fowls select their plumage.
Why settle in Tradition’s ruts?
Such rigid roles do damage.
Nuts in turn, may feel like flowers,
picking how and when to bloom.
So ambisexual thought empowers
androgynes to court their doom.
A leopard, too, may change his spots
(or turn into a vegan bunny)
No law’s tittles, neither jots
make Speciesism funny.
If you decide to see it so
the sky above is yellow.
Perceive as pink the grass beneath
and better times must follow.
Gender? Merely social constructs –
preach it to the masses
until tradition self-destructs
and *** takes off her glasses.
Babies need no Dad (nor Mother):
sexist labels, obsolete.
Love is blind. There is no other.
Bats must bark and chickens bleat.
Integrated water closets
show how far we have evolved:
urinary bank deposits
(with no member account involved).
Foolish thinking from the past
(like water being wet, and such)
calls for re-education, fast.
The State will lend its human touch
compelling all to sing the hymn
with genderfluid motions…
so birds can preen their scales and swim
in dry and waveless oceans.
(Yet “hymn” sounds sexist said out loud –
we ought to sing a “her” instead…
no – make that “us”, since we are proud,
lest misconceptions be misread.)
Shake a healthy dose of salt
upon this strange post-modern food.
May God re-set us to default
with human common sense renewed.
The dawn is nigh at hand. The clouds
begin to lift above the grange.
Arise, O Phoebus, bless the crowds –
let poultry roam the range.
I’ll bind a broom of gathered hay
to sweep the hen-house free of hate.
Let roosters hail the crack of day
and chicks with ***** tempt fate.
A fractured self and a challenge hurled:
they left the shell – but found it rough
because our bigoted barnyard world
cannot get queer enough fast enough.
They flutter through the *******’s farm
subverting gender’s useless role.
We feel their pain, and mean no harm –
yet question this progressive goal.
They cluck a brand-new barnyard song:
Gender Identity Obsolete!
(As long as they claim God hatched them wrong,
biology signals their defeat.)
While poultry scratches rhymes for “hen”
and chicks are combing crests for *****
let’s ring the dinner bell and then
we’ll synchronize the global clocks.
Let Mankind’s unmanned race delight
at Jesus’ gender-free return.
Soon Africa shall see the light
and Araby’s sun more brightly burn.
Then dawn shall break o’er Russian plains
to liberate the Tartar races;
loose their limbs from Gender’s chains
to stride with polymorphous paces.
China too, and Southeast Asia
swift shall follow in their train
joining in the West’s refrain.
Hindu multitudes will rise
to vanquish gender, caste aside
and shake the slumber from their eyes
with metro-ambisexual pride.
Carib isles, with Latin kingdoms
From the tropics to the mountains
Shall announce they too are Wisdom’s,
drinking from de-gendered fountains.
Juveniles, raised to simply be
shall pioneer new modes of life;
explore horizons happily
set free from biologic strife.
Then shall our earth, in glad array
***** dirt upon Tradition’s tomb;
unshackled from that dark dismay
to grieve – but nevermore exhume.
Alas, the global dreams descend.
We’re back in the barnyard, gender-queer…
where hens have ***** and eggshells bend
transcending Nature’s reign of fear.
The henhouse still votes hetero –
their eggless chickens cluck for rights
biologists, ex utero
are born to further futile flights.
(Because I was almost one of them
I’ve earned the right to make fun of them.
Time alone will tell if the trend
remains coherent to the end.)
We live in times of innovation.
Winds of change affront the nation;
wind most welcome – by a few
(the masses know not what to do
with engineered progressive change,
their morals slow to rearrange).
And thus, in ornithology
we find an apt analogy…
Phoenix-like the vulture rose
in rainbow raiment, from repose
Its plumage all askew – a freak:
a mutant with a painted beak
borne of winds but lately blown.
This strange new hybrid (yet unflown)
did twitter forth an avian boon.
It preened its plumes and croaked a tune:
“I represent that rarest fowl,
far wiser than outmoded owl…
A dazzling swan of change am I
brought forth to liberate the sky!”
(Yet more appeared a fractured emu;
fair is fowl post-op… they tried to
cross said emu with an ostrich!
(What the hell – the surgeon got rich
changing apples into – mangos;
altering the twos to tangos…)
Fresh from gender suicide
he moulted into she. Beside
herself (itself?) with grief, regarded
previous selves as false: discarded
Sir for Madam overnight;
fixed it, mixed it, made it right.
Since God was wrong the first time ‘round,
Man (or something) thus is bound
hormonally to tweak and mutate,
hastening rebirth’s freakish due-date.
A manly bass – and yet the face
was poorly paired in his/her case
Soprano ought to have resounded –
yet the voice left one confounded.
Rainbow bracelets notwithstanding
this was clearly modern branding
(on the forehead – like a beast?)
well, Jesus said the truth at least:
that angels are of neither gender
(hence no need to check the member.)
Lest we offend endangered species
I commend transgendered theses –
paired with warning and a fable
as they turn the feathered table:
We may nurture fair to foul
while nature shrieks a hideous howl
but foul to fair cannot return;
thus trapped, both Eve and Adam burn.
— The End —