Neither girl nor male… So what am I? Am I the so-called perv aiming to invade the wrong bathroom? Am I a heretic aiming to impose my wickedness onto the world? Am I the clocking stares they give me? How about the result of a broken home or a broken heart? Does my mere existence force you to reevaluate your identity? When all I'm trying to do is figure out mine. Neither girl nor male… So you tell me where I am to relieve my bowels. Or am I to stitch them shut for your comfort? While I'm at it, shall I stitch my eyes shut as to not burden you with running mascara; which further assaults my "feminine façade"? I'm sorry to burden you with my fake *****, of which a second of labor (turning your head) would relieve you of your distress. I'm sorry you'd rather slave away starring and clocking them. Clocking me. I am sorry that I was born male yet refuse to live up to such expectations. I am sorry that despite my best efforts I cannot pass for how I feel. Believe me—for the life of me—I am trying. As punishment for lack of natural *******, I stretch my skin to form a pleasing cleavage. As punishment for having the wrong body type, I wear a cage around my abdomen two sizes too small that cuts into my rib cage dare I seek the comforts of sitting down. As punishment for being born with a male anatomy, I crunch my disheveled sack of nerve endings between my chaffing thighs. Dare my body have the audacity to ***** itself for any reason I bend the muscle, in such a way never intended, between my legs just to have one less aesthetic reminder as to what I am not. Your clocking stares painfully remind me that I may never be seen as how I see myself. But ****** do I try. Until I do, I am condemned to be neither male nor… female.
By far not the worst struggle in the world. Disheartening nonetheless.
Let's see how many people understand. Let's see how little relates.
Scribbles on a page and sound that emits from the very lips I use to kiss have the power to be much more.
When the right words are in place they can make a lover's heart race, pumping oxygen to the brain so that the body won't collapse from being breathless.
My gentle heart beats to the rhythm of rain cascading down my beloved's face.
Words are a soft vibration that graces the eardrums and shakes the water free from her eyes' clenching grasp.
Words are the vibration we feel when the concrete walls we onced used for protection come crumbling down.
The Earth shakes beneath our feet as the war-hardened barricade fails—it becomes impossible to stand.
She grabs my hand as if for balance then holds it close to her heart.
Words are a vibration that puts to shame god's orchestra of a thousand angels playing a thousand violins in harmony.
The words become a symphony of their own, fine tuned for my lover's ear, moving us into a safe haven in one another's embrace where our softer halves can become whole again.
— The End —