my dying words:
i love him and he not me

Gender is a ****.
Now bear with me, I don’t mean it in a bad way
I mean it as gender is elusive
Gender is tricky
Maybe with my words I should be more picky
But that’s not the point
The point is gender is something I cannot hope to begin to understand

Maybe gender is a universe
And within it we are all stars
Or maybe gender is an ocean
Not quite the Dead Sea where everything floats
And not quite everywhere else where everything sinks
But somewhere in between
And within it we are all jellyfish trying to string together a coherent stream of consciousness that somehow makes sense

And-see?
It’s getting away from me
I used to think gender was a binary
Male, female, *****, ******
Everything coincides so we all fit into this dichotomy
But that leaves no room for Alex who is sometimes Alex and other times Cassandra
Or Sasha who is somehow both at once
Or me who lays claim to no label, because all of them throw up a red light

There is one thing I do know as fact
Pronouns are not a privilege
They are a right

They, them, their:
Singular gender nonspecific pronouns
A customer came into the store today and bought twelve packs of gum
I didn't know what was on their mind, but
Maybe they wanted to kiss their lover full on the mouth while an orchestra of taste crescendoed around them
Caleb came into class today with two cupcakes
One for them and the other for their best friend who hadn’t shown up in two weeks
Claiming “She’ll be here today, don’t you worry”
And the rest of us lapsed into silence, knowing she was never coming back

She, her, hers
No longer will I suffer in silence as those I care most for
Call me something I am not
I am not your daughter, I am your child
I am not your sister, I am your sibling
I am not a girl
I am a nonbinary
I know it makes no sense
But if you just listen you might be able see
To escape the past tense
And start living in the future with me

No longer will we stay quiet
Duct tape over our mouths as we are locked behind closed doors
Buried beneath accusations of
Transtrender
Genderspecial
“You’re just pretending”
No longer will we stay silent
The wrong pronouns whipping our bodies into submission

It
Is not a pronoun
*******
Is not a compliment

You sit in the audience groaning
When will this queer shut up and go home
Isn’t it enough that we acknowledge your existence
But you don’t
I cannot count the times I have been misgendered
I cannot count the times I have wanted to speak up but didn’t
Knowing I would not be taken seriously

Now I will not be silent until there are no more stories of
Schoolyard oppression
Trans suicides caused by a “lesson”
I will scream myself hoarse until
Trans women can walk the streets in safety and
Bathroom means bathroom not
Execution
Remember this
As we are forgotten by our cis siblings
As we are told we don’t exist
As you, the cis  in the front row
Realize
That your daughter at home
May not be your daughter
At all

What if,
The definition is different
For everyone
It finds?

If you don't mind,
brunette in row nine
and two quarters,
could you please stop asking why I'm sitting in?
Your eyes have explored me,
hands twisting into chemical equations
and inky nail polish. Ursula.
You're a chartist, a mapmaker, a
heartbreaker of weaker things than
girls and boys and dogs.
Your loafers dance across the
ugly golden tiles like impatient clock hands.
Your bare arms move to the drumbeat of your note taking,
your seduction salvation-- your eyes-- looking at me from prison window glasses and wondering why I'm so
free as to slide onto a back lab table
and silently, scientifically
observe a play playing out
in which you are merely an extra
and this class
is a sentencing hearing.

Some poems
just bend their ends
and pose a question
that has no answer,
save for hearts clicked
and minds dragged.

Why are you so
posed in repose,
your toes curled
into baby fists?
You've made your lists,
hissed at boys who
endured the fallout
of your failure
to say hello.
You kissed the girls instead.
And I don't blame you,
nor will I shame you,
tame you, but I will shout
your name at oblivion,
hoping it will recant you.

Your legs are long as moments
spent in your company.
Your hair is longer than promises
I made to you in the
dead of night that I
would not be dead at night.
You are a painting
looking into a mirror
and failing to appreciate the work of art
as a reflection.
You complain that your
lips are warm and your hands are cold
but I tell you that time heals
all transgressions.
There's a dreamer in your ear and a
lover in your eye and a writer in your heart and a speaker in your neck and a leader in your heart and a Good Samaritan in your gut and a winner in your legs and a teddy bear in your hand.
Conversations with you are the scenic route.
Kindness from you is a gift
for the present and a memory
for the future you try to ensure.
I owe you.

all i can say is
thank You
thank You
thank You
because who looks at this
mess of a heart, of a soul
and finds beauty in it?
You.
who looks at the awful things i did
and instead of pointing a finger,
instead of casting a stone,
or turning their back
they smile and whisper that it's okay?
You.
who looks at this heart who everyone couldn't love
and tells it that it is the most loved heart in the whole entire universe?
*You.