"gendered" poems
Blood means nothing
Unless it's staining the streets
Family has no merit
When they don't even See me
You want me to be passive?
And let them spew racist hate?
And all that "gendered" ********
You can't stop me, too late
**** the systems that oppress us
These prisons are stealing lives
Locking up innocent people
It's a form of modern genocide
We are all human
But our brothers are killed by police
And our sisters killed for their gender identity
But you'd rather look the other way
And defend hateful "free speech"
I am aware of my privilege
And I will not stay silent
You turn your eyes away from police brutality
But try to preach anti-violence
Our country is run by the white and the blue
While the red is the blood of its people
We need to look up at reality
And stop focusing on the steeples
Your hopes and your prayers
Do not end the violence
Instead they teach hate
And oppressive silence
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 7:15 AM UTC
Dr. F. Wilhem discovered it by accident you see?
The first man downloaded was no longer man.
He suffered dearly until the plug was pulled,
and we started over again; with biologists.
Geneticists, Embryonticians, TransEugenecists,
all celebrated the new fast-growing body.
No more deaths at old age expiry, on battlefields.
for a price all would live eternally; eternity here.
It did not work. The bodies worked, the software recorded
but the people were insanely bi-polar. Insane in fact.
Until we switched the torso and genetics in tandem.
then somehow the surviving person retained all memories!
They were in fact; themselves! Just in a different gendered body?
Unfortunately for everyone this was a major psychological shock.
Unexplainable, sure, evolution took four billion years so...
...more time, more time, more experimentation is all we need.
Wilhelm changed it all.
When he added the shock,
added the <human> response,
turning the machines into
Humans.
They are truly A.I.
...verily human in fact.
Animal-ish, peaceful
then angry, terrible or
violent.
Artificially Intelligent;
Humans.
*"What good is it to change a person,
...merely into someone else?"* -Al Abd Azaz
*To see beneath the surface,
and know the ocean tydes.
To see beneath the surface,
and know the ocean tydes.
To see beneath the surface,
and know the ocean tydes.* *
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 12:14 AM UTC
Graffiti, Graffiti, Graffiti
Being bled onto
The landscapes between thighs
Incarcerating women's wombs
Justifying men's genes
Foreigners appropriating
Women's and men's sexualities
Losing the power to be
When changing our roles' long overdue
Gendering our words and attitudes
Man, who taught you to be a chauvinist!
Woman, who taught you to be a *********
Don't put your god in gendered bigotry
Do man's emotions feminize him?
When will women freely carry torches!
What gender do you assign this voice?
What gender do you assign this words?
Will the masses even understand these choices?
Don't worry, my sexuality won't infect you
Criminalizing sexuality
Placing it front and center, implying that's all I am
Graffiti, Graffiti, Graffiti
Being bled onto
The landscapes between thighs
Graffiti, defiling the masses not high classes
Because men and women of society
Full of stride, take pride, in their gendered hyde
Graffiti, defiling the masses not high classes
Ignored hoods, barrios, countrysides, ghettos, projects
Devouring women's and men's bodies
Younger and younger people falling to HIV/AIDS and STDS
Vaginas receiving the violence, wombs bringing misery
LGBT youth ****** into fire
Lost males (in mental chains) ****** to assert their manhoods
Graffiti, Graffiti, Graffiti
Full of dangerous chemicals, being sprayed onto
The landscapes between thighs
Attempting to legislate our stories, without warrant
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
They have now thronged brimful, all the barazas
In their elderly gear, in a move to cut off my thing,
The Maasai chiefs and elders have their fangs now,
More glowing in the crudeness of despotic culture,
Their foul circumcisers’ tools sharply menacing,
All focused on my ****** ******** the only joy of my nature,
They want to maliciously cut it off in their selfish solace
Minus mine consent the right of a young girl,
Chided by evils done in the name of culture,
Kwani? a maasai and culture who creates the other?
Can’t we create culture that is so darlingly to rights of girl?
Other than receding back to crookedness of un-gendered past
Denying I your posterity the rights to self worthiness,
Kindly I beg that you don’t cut of my ********
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 4:58 AM UTC
I hate your ********* skepticism.
You sit and look at me from across an
Empty expanse of blood-red tablecloth that might as well be
The divide between galaxies.
I try to stay calm when you ask if
"Alternative" pronouns are being used
As a "social experiment" in GSA.
I look away.
My heart pounds.
My face flushes.
It is only for the sake of the young kids present
That I do not mutter any obscenities.
I take a deep breath.
I tell you, slowly, carefully, that
No it isn't an experiment.
They have chosen to use plural pronouns
They, them, theirs,
Just as legitimate as the "normal" ones, male and female.
Why should anyone's name be tied to
What they were born with between their legs?
You answer back in a long drawl that is so full I skepticism
I could choke on it's ignorance.
"Okay then."
Two words, two words that make me rethink everything
I think about you, my father.
I was filled with hope when I listened to
Tales of love and life,
Freedom to marry who you want.
You support gay rights, Dad,
But I'm left wondering:
Do you support all my friends?
The pansexual and gender-fluid and bisexual and homosexual and demi-sexual and those who chose other pronouns?
What about the transsexuals and asexuals and third-gendered and pan-romantic and sapiosexual and queer?
I turn away before I reveal my hurt to you
I will not open up this can of worms again, I'm sure.
I thought I knew you.
Now I only know how much more I
Respect
Compared to you.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 10:30 PM UTC
The yellow, early evening sun feels heavy and warm on my legs.
Like a cat curled up to enjoy a small nap,
It rests on my pink and rainbow blanket.
My mother snores in the old blue chair next to me,
******* in worry and exhaustion and the scent of basil,
Oblivious to the small-town sounds of birds and cars and children playing,
Unaware that her daughter is something she claims to not understand.
"Pansexuality, honestly, just sounds
Horrible,"
She had told me.
"I don't understand pansexuality and gender-fluid and stuff,"
She said,
The car sliding smoothly over the highway under grey skies.
I tried to explain, but I was swamped in
Confusion.
"Well...there are more than two genders, like being gender-fluid and agendered and bi-gendered and third-gendered......
And pansexual people like all of those genders."
"That's what I can't understand. I mean, I kinda get the concept, but..." Her voice trails away like blue cigarette smoke, still deadly even after it has dissipated into the clouds.
I feel like I'm choking on it, raw pink lungs tightening and swelling, forcing yellow stars before my eyes,
Not able to explain the way
I don't care what you identify as,
I only care about love.
My mother's grandmother didn't know that non-straight people existed.
My mother's mother didn't know that bisexual people existed.
My mother doesn't believe that more than two genders exist,
Or know that I find all of them attractive.
But she had already dropped the subject,
Instead filling the awkward lull with discussions of
Colleges and books she's reading and and what my younger sister is doing in school.
I could feel my soul bubbling up behind my lips,
Pink and yellow and blue,
I wanted to tell her to stop and listen.
I wanted to tell her to be quiet,
And to be accepting,
And to try to understand.
I wanted to tell her
'I'm pansexual.
There.
Now you know.
Would you have said that it was horrible and that you can't understand?
That, in essence, I am horrible and you can't understand me?'
But I didn't.
I sat, the warm sticky grey leather under my thighs
The same as the warm, sticky grey clouds,
The yellow sun just peeking out into blue skies beyond the pale pink dogwoods.
She wakes up, warm sticky breath catching in her chest
As she opens her eyes.
She mumbles quietly about oversleeping
Before she rushes out the door,
Leaving behind a daughter
She thinks she knows,
As she claims to not understand
My label
That I have hidden inside my closet door,
Next to my pink, yellow, blue scarves.
Maybe tomorrow I'll put it on,
Pin my heart to my sleeve,
Wear my colors proudly.
But not today.
Never today.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 7:35 PM UTC
I'm tired.
I'm tired of it taking more mental energy
and self confidence for us to go out in public,
than it does most people.
I don't blame a person, or religion,
its much more than that.
I blame society in general, its peer pressure,
It's structure designed to keep everyone
in small boxes, all thinking the same.
I blame manufacturer's for making every item
we buy gendered male or female,
Just to sell more and make more money.
I blame the media for its lies and ignorance
when reporting about us..
And I blame us is some ways for allowing it.
I blame myself for not doing more,
but I'm just too tired of fighting, struggling
and having to do it all again tomorrow.
I'm Transgender.. And I get tired.
by Lj Mark 2015
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 10:31 PM UTC
There are days when my body doesn't
Support me doesn't
Hold me close and
Protect me.
These are the days that I am a clay figure
Molded by clumsy hands shaped
With curves where there should be flat
Planes where I exist to create a mask a
Persona of who I am who I want to be.
These are the days when I want to avoid
My reflection yet check it to make sure it
Matches what I want to see.
These are the days that my reflection Never matches what I want to see where
My insides twist in disgust and I want to
Crawl inside myself and hide from the
World. These are the days when I wake up
Two hours early to prepare to layer first Binder then undershirt then shirt then Shirt then sweatshirt then jacket because
The bulk makes my body a secret.
These are the days when my body is a
Secret that I never want to reveal when
My steps are unsure and my face is set to
Boy-mode.
These are the days that I watch guys and
Imitate them stealing their walks hoping
I'll steal their identities so I don't have to
Live in my own.
These are the days that my heart fissures
When I am called "her" when a pronoun
Becomes an insult and
These are the days that I wish my mind
Wasn't so dead-set against my happiness
That I could just feel "girl" that I could
Just pretend it away.
But these
Are the days that I fight hardest to be who I
Am and fight to educate others and
Imagine a day when I won't be misgendered or gendered at all.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 10:00 PM UTC
My friend is bi-gender.
I'm not sure whether to say him or her,
But I really don't want to offend him/her...
After a lot of research about it,
And countless nights of no sleep, I'll admit.
I've finally come to a conclusion, I won't throw a fit.
At first I was scared,
I was scared that no one cared,
But then I saw your smile, and how you looked prepared,
"I've come to my decision!" I had declared.
I'm oh so very proud of my double gendered friend,
It still amazes me to no end.
Although others will say that you pretend,
I'll stay by your side as the days begin to blend.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 8:50 PM UTC
why are bathrooms
and t shirts and pants
gendered?
i am not a girl wearing
clothes, i am a human
wearing clothes.
i should be able
to wear what i please
and still be human.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 8:58 AM UTC
The difference between ‘this’ and ‘that’
existentially plastered and preparing for nothing
The Hadit and Nuit
Bored and lonely on a carpet and picking acne
The being in and for
The words of infinite relation and perspective
Horus and Nut
On Saussure’s lap dogged, tired, and deceptive
Gilgamesh and Inkidu
"And nothing else matters" Metallica claim
Yin and Yang?
All are the same
and different at the same time
built in illusion
'the paradox conclusion'
God written in Mathematics
And forgotten in words
The Nature of the universe is SO immature
Always sitting and waiting for life to begin
Looking for answers to moral and logical sins
A Non gendered third person pronoun, shin
Cough! and Cough! and sputter and Die!
Burnt by the spent life
Why?
We are but the glorious observers of such things
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 1:18 PM UTC
Police killings,
Guns in classrooms,
Black lives matter,
Gendered bathrooms.
Terrorism, marriage law,
Protests, riots,
Presidential election,
American crisis.
Red, white and blue
We’re kneeling, burning.
Children watching,
Hearing, learning.
Moving backward
But seeking change,
Demanding love
But spreading hate.
Tearing down,
Demanding growth,
Impossible
To have both.
We scream so we’re heard
But do we seek change,
Or do we seek volume?
Is it passion or rage?
There's quite a difference
Between taking a stand
And demanding peace
With knives in our hands.
We are the power,
And we are the knowledge.
But we are the battle,
And we are the challenge.
Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 2:03 PM UTC
dear —,
this is not divinity-
no empty pillowcase cape can make you fly
no lipstick can make you beautiful no girl can make you girl no
boy can’t make you boy
no night time prayers can make you god
girl,
you can’t hate yourself into a revolution
or love yourself into a label
boy,
bi-
child.
binary gendered thing
bipolar botched up baby with hit hard head
bisexual? still denying: gay **** queer ***** ***** *****
bi.
j,
this is no caution tape finish line-
no period can finish your seesaw story,
child,
sadness sometimes stretches like
semicolons or wet cement
flowing through this blood, waiting for the moment to harden
to cave you into yourself
to sink into nose too wide, heart too big, space
too much
you growing soul,
with samson strength put all
in two places
just because that ****** pillowcase can
catch your tears doesn’t mean
you will always be only to catch
You,
stand.
have you prayed your own salvation so much you’ve forgotten how it feels to
open your eyes
?
held yourself long enough your back can’t crack open again
?
searched solutions for phantoms so you can only see yourself problem
?
have you written so many poems that you expect me finished
here?
•••
darling,
not every poem has a conclusion
not every poem needs one.
and not every person is prose
where the solution wraps itself into a bow
you can’t keep conflict with yourself until it does
love,
sometimes the answer will pass through
falling failing chests and
pressed pastor palms
sometimes the answer isn’t prewritten
picture book in black and white/boy and girl
sometimes it’s You
somewhere in between-
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 7:36 PM UTC
when forts were places without rules and they weren't uncommon and they just were,
when school was a morning activity and an afternoon activity and punctuation was more
important than the sentences themselves,
when I could sit on the sheepskin rug, skin glowing in the light from the incandescent
bulbs that are now almost impossible to find,
when Daddy's piggybacks were the highest I could ever possibly imagine I'd be, and the slide back down
was vegetables instead of dessert,
when superiority meant winning tag and soccer and having the best lunch,
when teachers didn't have first names or a life outside of class and to see them in the grocery store was
a bit of panic and a bit of pleasure,
when family friends meant a bunch of adults who hugged you and gave you candy as a political ****
you!" to your parents,
when sports were easy and not gendered,
when TV was good and didn't try to teach you anything, and then later when it was bad and still taught
you nothing,
when bedtime was three hours after a nap,
and when sitting up straight wasn't a remembered idea after four hours of slouching in a computer chair.
Apr 17, 2012
Apr 17, 2012 at 1:43 AM UTC
First of all don't fit me into a box
the typical 2 gender category
I do have a female body
that doesn't mean I always behave or
act as a female does
can't stand the typical
black and white view and stereotypes
your a woman therefore
you must clean, cook and be in the kitchen
its life skills everyone needs to learn
regardless of their gender and identity
its not the 1960s any more
everyone is equal
also the fact that I enjoy ***
and have a female body
doesn't make me a ***** *** or a ****
check your definitions
before you start accusing me of this
*** and ***** pay for pleasure
I never charged anyone
just sharing my affection and love
for people and *** is a beautiful
and spiritual act so be honoured
rather than attacking me
also don't call me woman or lady
but by all means you can call me
*** babe, chick or if in doubt just call
me by my first name Kim
I am neutral gendered
I understand both male
and female perspectives
love people regardless
of gender as I don't
fit into any of these categories
I enjoy both male and
female activities
but I often flit
between the 2
genders
therefore I am neutral
and will dress, behave
and act accordingly
to how I feel.
Dec 20, 2019
Dec 20, 2019 at 5:05 AM UTC
I wish that women were people.
I wish that no girl will ever again be limited by the norms of our society.
That no girl will be told that she cannot, that she must not.
That her dreams, her personality are inappropriate or wrong.
That colours are not gendered and that she can wear green, blue or yellow as she pleases.
I wish that teenage girls learn to love themselves.
Learn that they are not inferior. That loosing weight,
looking skinny and pretty are not the goals they should starve themselves to reach. That boys are stupid and they don't have to put up with their ****
That the men who hoot after them, catcall them are creeps unworthy of their attention. That being pressured into stripping on Skype by older men can be reported and that mom in most cases do understand what they're going through.
I wish that young adult women never had to feel pressure to be feminine.
That they never feel forced to shave, to let their hair grow, to wear make-up.
That they never have to force themselves into heels that hurt their feet and learn to spit in the leering faces of men, to say 'fuck you' without fear of being assaulted and knowing full well how to make a man regret putting his gross, entitled hands on them.
I wish that mothers never had to fear for their daughters.
I wish that mothers never had to hold and comfort their baby girls after nightmare parties with monsters masquerading as boys.
I wish that women did not have to live in fear.
I wish we did not have to watch our bodies used as props, sold like pieces of meat at the butcher.
I wish we did not have to fight for the right to own our bodies.
I wish that women knew that 'No' is a complete sentence and needs no justification.
I wish that women knew their worth.
I wish that women knew they were people.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 5:52 PM UTC
earbuds buzz,
indic of incoming friendly fire,
another love song,
hardly differing,
what’s the big deal?
uh oh, oh no,
only transformered into an ****** boy soon
to be out loud squealing
for that’s not the way a poet’s brain operates,
a surgical insertion of a poetic inquiry brings a repetitive inquisition's painful honesty
and a new commitment commission now inescapably upfront~facing
even for the
low priestly devotee of
only
love
poetry!
Has anyone ever said to you
I want to hold you forever?
Have you ever told anyone
I want to hold you forever?
oh my god!
*the brain is racked, a fav torture of the self-
inquisitors, more awful than version physical,
my balance disturbed, my soul perturbed,
which the greater, my enabled loss or
my failure?*
*for a detailed search of history personnelle
(of course! it is a feminine noun)
registers no results, given or received,
the hurt of the how, can it be, OLP never
uttered this most greatest
declaration of love?*
and then/there, by the River East, a most public place, old man is seen uncontrollably
weeping, a non-gendered English verb,
reported the New York Post
tabloid newspaper
small thanks, photo had my back bent,
my face remained hidden, but revealed agony
of the twisted prostrate figure leaning over
the railing as he rails like an exile
or a hostage
*and there’s no answer forthcoming, no coverup, just an existential howling in
recognition that the opportunity has likely
disappeared, and the sky answers not
when begged*
***why me, why me, for the silence
is answer enough, never was I willing to
raise the gate protective, high enough to
stand before another, unclothed and
impurities revealed
surrender myself to accept or
give out or give in to
that most
wonderful risk***
and the weeping
doesn’t cease,
it is doesn’t soothe
or ease,
for the division’s remainder
remains less than a
whole integer
how can I call myself,
only a love poet?
and I answer
my self
with a teary silence
of an unanswered
curse
Oct 11, 2024
Oct 11, 2024 at 7:28 AM UTC
Don't tell me to shut up and be grateful,
For the rights "given" to me.
Nobody "gave" me my sovereignty.
It is mine, inherently.
To say that I should be grateful to possess more rights
Than the women before me,
Is like to say I should be grateful to the theif
Who only steals twenty dollars, when he used to steal fifty.
As long as I live in a society that blames a **** victim
For being too ****
As long as I live in a society that creates an institutional
Gendered Heirarchy,
And as long as I live in a society where people feel trapped
By their ****** identity
I will not shut up and be grateful.
I will be loud and angry.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 4:55 AM UTC
I've been very vulnerable lately. I am vulnerable, and I'm not sure how to exist within it.
Well, see, society (what is it? It lives and breathes but is often undetected- like a cyborg) tells us that vulnerability = femininity, in order for both to mutually invalidate the other- because in a patriarchal society that feeds on myth, there is no room for either of them, as they provoke questions. But once you're out of the spectrum, things begin to change.
I'm beginning to view patriarchal systems of oppression as post-apocalyptic worlds - something which, through my interest in science fiction, is important and familiar to me. It makes this life seem equal parts more bearable and more gruesome, because, on one hand, nothing seems real, but on the other, everything appears to be hyper-realistic and predictive of some sort of massive disaster. Oftentimes I'm not sure which to side with.
I'm also keeping a journal of things that I do to make myself feel better & gendering them as society would just to see what I'm like inside. It's interesting to see that I'm a mixture of gendered behaviors, but that pain itself is not gendered.
My trans friend says that's contradictory. He believes that society exists purely without gender, intrinsically, and that since we create gender for ourselves as a means of oppression, I shouldn't be trying to figure out how I relate within that system, but rather attempting to break out of it.
But, hey- better the devil you know than the devil you don't, right?
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 11:01 AM UTC
I'm aware that our drinking might be damaging
to our livers, but
there's something amazing about seeing ourselves
without filters.
The pull you described-
I thought it was imaginary
as I'm not the best judge of my own character
and when you met me, I thought I was a ********
Sometimes, I still think I'm a ********
But you've molded me
into something far better,
a form I am proud to inhabit,
a soul I enjoy feeding
and feeling inside me.
Yes, you're an inspiration
and yes, your form and mind keep me awake
at night, imagining
possibilities-
ways to kiss you, adore you, be a better man for you -
(and yes,
I gendered myself
partially because you've made me realize
that my Self is a canon
of hope for others like me
and that I should cherish it)
There's nothing more precious to me
than waking up next to you,
feeling your eyelashes flutter
against my cheek as we rise,
procrastinating leaving our bed
because it's warm and inviting-
or feeling your breath in my ear
as you tell me your stories,
secrets
that I won't ever mention
to anyone-
You'll have everything I can give
in my emotional reserve.
You'll have my joy, pain, oblivion
and all in between.
You'll have time, love, patience, faith,
whatever you need,
my love,
ask
and it shall be granted
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 9:51 AM UTC
I hate being maternal
I hate being fearful
I hate being traumatised
I hate being quiet.
I hate my attraction to men
Because it makes me fearful
That I’ll have kids
And they’ll be neglected, empty and loveless.
I hate being anxious
I hate losing control
I hate my upbringing.
If it weren’t for the confusion
And the belting and the yelling
I wouldn’t be scared.
I hate my attraction to men
Because it made me fearful
I was told that they’re rapists
And they’d take advantage of me.
I hate being weak
I hate being gendered
I hate looking and feeling small.
I wish I was only attracted to women
Because I’d be less fearful
I wouldn’t worry about having kids.
I hate feeling inadequate
I hate feeling like a machine
I hate feeling weak.
I wish conversion therapy worked
Because I hate being attracted
To any man who might hurt me
Or force me to have kids
Or force me to be his slave
Or refuse to accept who I am.
I hate being viewed as a woman
I hate when I try to express affection
Women laugh at it, and men take it the wrong way.
I hate being invalidated
As a non-binary person
Who doesn’t want to cause anyone pain.
I hate ****** attraction towards men
Because if it weren’t for self-control
I’d dig my own grave
And possibly that of unwarranted children.
I hate being an unhappy child
Because if I was raised lovingly
I wouldn’t be anxious
I wouldn’t be cursing my sexuality
For including men
Because I wouldn’t be scared
Of having kids
Cos I’d know I would raise them
The happy way I was raised.
If I was raised lovingly,
I know I’d raise kids that way too
And they wouldn’t suffer
They wouldn’t blame me
And the cycle of raising kids lovingly
Would be passed on throughout generations.
Tell me I’m exaggerating
But my dad swore
He wouldn’t raise me
The way his father raised him.
But I was terrorized
By his beltings
Just like the ones
His father gave him.
So I hope you understand
Why I hate part of my sexuality
And why for the good of others
I don’t want kids.
I want to stop this cycle
Of fear, pain and suffering
Even if it ends me.
Even if no-one remembers me.
It’s good for my conscience
To say this right here and now
I hate being scared
And I’d hate for anyone
To be afraid of me.
11th October 2017
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 6:11 AM UTC
Hello little boy, grass-stained knees.
You'll grow up to be a queen,
Called only by the highest gendered words.
Hello little girl, boas and tea parties.
You'll grow up to be a ranger,
Warned not to act like a female.
Are you there, little boy?
Is it still you under the sorrow
Of looking back and seeing a stranger?
Are you there, little girl?
Can you still hear me
Under your cries for help?
Please don't despair.
No, I can't promise that
One day, you'll be you again.
Please don't go.
No, I can't tell you how
Many years you have left like this.
Goodbye little boy, cut up arms.
Goodbye little girl, scissors and band-aids.
You grew up to be a someone,
But you didn't know who.
Growing up is fatal.
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 4:52 PM UTC
When I tell my little sister I got a pet mouse
She's asks "why didn't you get a hamster like a normal person?"
Her voice poisoned with disgust
When the guy at the pet store says he didn't expect me to be a snake person
Says he didn't expect to sell a mouse to someone like me so quickly
I know he means little girl, breakable woman
Little girls are not supposed to be into snakes and scraped knees and oversized tshirts
But I, I always have been
And yet my friends who have the best intentions
Tell me if people saw my accessories they'd never assume I'm queer
But they don't say queer they say gay
But I'm not gay
But I'm not straight
And I keep teetering between too much and not enough
Always in this heat of this new game
And I was never taught how to play
I was never given a rule book to my gender
To my sexuality
Because they never tell you how to be in between
I never correct people when they mislabel me in one way or another
Because I've learned people hear what they want to believe
It means I will be wasting the already fleeting breath in my lungs
To explain something to those who will never embrace it
My gay friends debated over whether bisexual people are actually gay in front of me
And wondered why I walked out of the restaurant
They didn't see the lava bubbling with anger and shame at the back of my throat
I cannot even call myself bisexual
Because that implies too gendered
That implies too simple
For my hopelessly complexed identity
I find myself somewhere on the border
And some days this body serves its purpose
Other days it is violently trying to escape itself
Not quite enough to mention to anyone but me
Not quite enough to matter to anyone but me
But I see these binaries as a prison
And most days it seems like I am in solitary confinement
Too much, not enough
Always in between
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 11:33 PM UTC
An Academic (with too much time) deplores our use of him and her.
“These gendered pronouns give offense; to transgenders, they are a slur.”
“So at our University, “Ze” shall stand for “He” or “she”
And when crowds gather now and then, “Zey” shall now be known as “zhem”.”
“Old style pronouns must not be used when the student body is so confused.”
“Gendered bathrooms, were so unkind, now the doors bear equal signs (=)”
We must not judge or interpose when boys dress up in women’s clothes.
Nor should we act with prejudice if Zey decide to make a switch.
For what you may have been at birth may not be what you had in mind;
Hormonal treatments can, in time, make a drab boy look Divine
Though Ze went to an all girl’s school, Zee’s now packing all the tools
With the surgeon’s skill and care you can lose or grow a pair.
“Though Male and Female He created them, surgically we have updated zhem.”
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 7:59 AM UTC
The woman in the waiting room
In disembodied space,
She dug a hole,
Pale,
And fell into it.
She digs holes and dances ‘round them.
She dug a hole and danced around it.
(She…
…She…
She uses gendered language)
In the next room they try to fill holes by digging them.
She tells them this is backwards.
You will just make a larger hole.
In the farthest room someone sits across from you, telling you how to feel.
But all things become lost in the hole
All things but the pale
Underside of a leaf floating atop an unnatural calm
Wind
Or water
And the pale face
Standing atop the bridge
Drinking in the cold,
dark,
space
reserved for the unborn.
She cannot enter it;
The hole will not go deep enough
This time.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC