Mother wept for weeks when you died.
Her cries rang throughout the house
as if she had put a microphone up to her mouth.
She demanded to know why I killed her daughter.
Where was the daughter who wore floral skirts to spin around in?
Where was the daughter who wore shimmering gold makeup as a way to be pretty?
Where was the daughter that begged for her hair braided like Katniss every morning?
She demanded answers but I don’t know if you actually ever existed.

I know you tried to exist.
I know you kept trying to stop me from ‘taking your place’
by devouring every feminine stereotype you could find.
I couldn’t live repressed under emotions you refused to address.
I couldn’t survive as you tried every title besides the correct one.
I couldn’t stand the sight of you in the mirror or photos
I still can’t.

Maybe I did **** you as I cut my hair shorter than you wanted.
I killed you by throwing out all your favorite clothing items.
I killed you by no longer letting you be the ideal daughter.
I killed you just like I started to **** our family.
All it took was a simple letter saying I wasn’t a girl, but instead a boy.
The silent treatment felt more like a punishment for wanting to be me.
I was cut off while I still lived in the same house as them.
The only thing is that I would **** you again,
but only if I got to see you crumble away every time.