That we are no boys nor girls.
Neither male or female.
Don't fit in the system.
That we are non-binary.
Doesn't make us any less real.
We are just genderqueer.
Don't forget about us.
We excist.
We are just non-binary.
Genderqueer.
Gender fluid.
Agender.
Transgender.
Multigender.
Genderbi.
We are still humans.
We just have a non-binary gender.
That is all.

No one wrote a book
On how to queer up the world.
I’ve been waiting for Volume One
On how to hate your body effectively,
Because all of the brats who spit in my
Cherry eyes won’t tell me what I’m doing wrong
When I say “it doesn’t fit.
It never fits. Will I ever fit?”

Because we’re one binary and the other, and we don’t
Fit quite between, and we’re doomed to be melting
Snowflakes in schoolyards. We’re doomed to tears,
And standing awkwardly between ‘boy’ and ‘girl’ sections.
They opened up their doors to us, those who fit
Comfortably or not so comfortably in either of the two
Slots (like maybe this is a gameshow, and I didn’t pick
The right door?) but they promptly
Threw us out when we tried. And tried again.
And failed and cried and threw our hands in the air like
Children, misguided, in pain, stubbing our toes on the door
That says “real suffering.”

Because our suffering isn’t real to a world that encapsulates it in
So many words as symptoms for a
Common cold.

Deny it; it makes no difference:
the American government pitches its deceitful realtor-reality to the world:
flaunting our flag as the banner of the free, but avoiding
our faults and failures as a country.
“Oh yes! We’re rollin’ in the (borrowed) bucks!
We’re a proud superpower capable of chaos; calamity!”
Well, kudos on your catastrophes: we all know it’s a hollow show.

See, we’re slaves to China, bound by China’s chains
to billions of dollars, the deficit deepening daily.
And who’s to blame?
“Not I!” says the Democrat.
“Not I!” says the Republican.
“Not I” say I, but we
weaved our financial woes together.
It’s not stupidity; if we could see into the future, we’d be shakin’ our money makers.
But have you seen the current fiscal guillotine
whose blade looms low and approaching our throats?
Oh, irony of ironies: the American government isn’t free.
Oh mah gee.
Freak out!
Calm down...
Forbes informs me that federal spending spurs private sector growth.
But when fifty-four thousand buckaroos from you
and you
and you
and me too is just enough
to cover Congress’ **** until the dimwits there do another... (insert something dumb),
it’s time to draw the line.

And time to erase lines previously drawn:
George Washington warned us once before:
“...the common and continual mischiefs of [political] parties are sufficient to make it the... duty of a wise people to discourage... it.”
Yet here we are: the media’s reporting majority wars
that serve only to sail us further offshore from Pristine America
and a time when things really seemed to matter, especially when they did.
Deny it; it doesn’t matter; it doesn’t change
our chances of escaping another Cuban
Missile
Crisis. If we waged World
                               War
                                            Three, what would we
                                                       do?
                                                               One
thing: debate, procrastinate, our fate
a fragile plaything fought over
by infantile, full-grown fanatics who never quite phased out of high school debate.
They never learned to lose, and so they play the inane blame game,
I say quite frankly: gurl. Dat cray-cray.

Dear Democracy, when will my words hold water?
When will the weight of a rainbow OREO or a
monogamous monotone monotheistic chicken sandwich
on my guilty conscience be lifted?
Must I muster a hungry lackluster life in the land of opportunity
to oppose tyranny
and uphold justice? I turned eighteen last December,
but for as long as I can remember
I’ve been voting with the dollar bill, my ballot
traveling through the bloodstream, fueling the body of big business, who fuel the daring charities, who fuel their bills in congress.

Democracy, do you know me?

For this faux-democratic nation where the population waits for the government to lay itself to waste, the Founding Fathers sob, disgraced.
                                                       Oh, God Bless America!
the nation where when faced with any
[man, woman, child, intersex, genderqueer, etc.] who dares defile the status quo,
accept the stigma like a crown of thorns, on top of all the scorn
                                                                    We The People
donate millions to “charities” who dare to speak for
Jesus,
the meek and mild. John chapter eight, verses one through eight:
he drew a
fine line in the
sand, man:
it’s where your rights end and mine begin. Irony, irony: they are as good as
mine.
For this faux-democratic nation where the population waits for the government to lay itself to waste, the Founding Fathers sob, disgraced.

Genderqueer contesting histories climate apocalypse social activist make a tax-deductible donation today starting at the advocate level inextricably to reexamine his legacy linked black gender-ambiguous social and political struggles behavioral economics Afro-futurist vision of decolonize this text white boy spear-heading queerphobic witch-hunt singular surrealities queer Shabbat dinners dialogue this trope diversity Rawlsian diagnosis basic earth cooperative existential Marxism for our times starting at the advocate level inextricably to reexamine his legacy linked black gender-ambiguous social and political struggles behavioral economics Afro-futurist vision of decolonize this text white boy spear-heading queerphobic witch-hunt singular surrealities queer Shabbat dinners dialogue this trope diversity

BAM! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BAM!  THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BAM! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BAM!  THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BAM! BOOM! THUD!

In highschool I thought I liked girls
I thought it wasn't right, to even look
that if I tried it would be different, abnormal
I didn't know it was okay
To want to kiss another girl
To touch another girl
That it would be a violation
I wouldn't be liked back

I thought I had to be a certain way
dress a certain way
act a certain way
I didn't wear make up, but also didn't wear masculine clothing
I was just me

I got stares from butch lesbians that were in gangs
I was frightened and alone
"What are you staring at?" if I looked back
Looks based off of intimidation

this wasn't me, this wasn't it

I tried to date men, same ole same ole
video games, boredom,
not having drive
it wasn't interesting, it wasn't making my heart race
going through one motion to another
I tried.

I was told that I was just making it up
That I was pretending
That I was doing it for attention
Fantasizing about female celebrities
if only

I then came out to myself
dated a girl
who wasn't a girl
he was genderqueer
he was trans
and it all began
I was attracted to beyond the gender binary

2 dollar margarita nights
at the gay bar in New York
queers stumbling, fumbling, sweating, dancing
going outside to just
light a cigarette for some pretty girl
connect with eyes
just to talk
just to have a connection

Turns to quick ****** experiences
With a blink of an eye
She kisses me, she wants me
She want's go further
That wasn't me
I don't know you
you don't know my heart

Then I met you

Wrong pronouns at the grocery store
No correction, you know who you are
Questions on identification, even at the gay bar
It's okay, you understand


Under the Christmas lights of my room
in my bed
with your smell left in my sheets
I'm so happy, I'm filled with joy
Tears rushing down my face
I can't believe I'm in love

My body
Is not obscene.
It is not something
That needs to be hidden,
Brought out only in the dark of bedrooms,
And showers,
And alleyways,
And incognito mode.

My body
Is not for sale,
Not a commodity, though if I chose to sell it for money you'd ridicule me--
Deep down you love it, don't you?
The fine you pay for fine curves and no promises.
Those desperate nights you need something to come into.
Is that what we are?--
Somethings?

And no sooner exchange the dollar for a dance than sweettalk for ***.
And I could do the same to you, too-- I am not excused.
Not that you know that. We all pretend I can't...

Just a prize to be won?
I'm not anyone!
Come on, try to take me...
And when you do, oh-oh-oh!
Congratulations!
Lucky you!
You got me.

Success

Sweet success.

I have desires too,
But they don't matter--
If I want to **** him, he's the one who won
Because females don't desire.
And being trans?
Genderqueer?
Androgyne?
Hell, that doesn't exist!
What a load of ****!
And I smile now, because I don't remember how to cry.

I am not allowed to desire,
And if I do, and I reach what I want,
Then I am a ****.
Worthless.
Trash.
But were I a "real" man,
I would be a winner for it.

Anger has lived in me.
Jealousy has made my bones its home.
I am not allowed to exist.
I am not allowed to want.
I am not allowed to sin.
I am not allowed to be.
I am a second, a lower form.
Collateral--
And I'm yours.

Why do you worship my body and yet disrespect it?
And disrespect me?
I cannot exist.
Kiss me just to shut me up----
I'm tired of pretending to be human in a world that won't let me be.
I quit.

You complain that I complain.
But sexism pervades every moment of my life:
I am constantly fighting it;
Each kiss, every ****,
My schooling, my career,
Everyday conversations,
All of my relations to other people, no matter which kind,
Each time I shower,
Get dressed,
Exercise,
Turn on the TV,
Go out to the pool or a hotel or on a walk,
Sexism is there to hold my hand.
It is with me.
I've never had an ally so loyal.
It wouldn't dare leave my side.

Would I dare?
To leave it behind?
Would you?
Could we join hands,
Across genders,
Across sexes,
Form a new alliance?
One that helps me feel safe in my own body,
My own mind,
My own home?

That gives other women and other afabs a chance to be seen as more than just bodies?
Will there be a day when I can stand beside an amab, both our chests bare, and be seen as equal?
Will there be a day when you will see me as my gender?
And will there be a day that you will finally see a trans woman as more of a woman than me?
We may be females.
Biologically or mentally--
But that does not define us.
We define us.

This is My Body.
It is not me, but it is mine.
It will never belong to anyone else.

My Body.

Queer, genderqueer, non-binary, non-hetero, pan, omni, gay, pagan, quaker.
whatever.

Labels may make people more easily digestable, but I don't want to be devoured by your limited paradigm.

I don't want your gut to strip me of my intricacies and **** them out only to be flushed away.

If you are trying to engulf me and break me down you will surely *****.

I will make sure of it.

My name is Gian, and
My name is Gigi,
and I hope that even that
is hard for you to keep down.

If losing yourself is like drowning in the deepest sea
Then I'm being drowned by society
Down into isolation and darkness
I realise it's important so hark! This
Person is finding out just who they are
It's taken time and I've travelled far
But I'm sinking and flying at the same time
If you've got a problem you can wait in line
Behind all the bullies and people I've been mean to
I'm starting to get my problems seen to
By doing it myself and carpe firm
I need to be me so they can be them
Heading down I don't know the words
But up in the sky it all seems absurd
It's safer to be a serious straight woman
Than a fun bi genderqueer who can
Do whatever the hell they like
And don't feel scared be "***" or "****"
Being yelled at across the street and whispered on the stair
Because confidence means they just don't care
What people think or how they behave
So standing up for myself isn't brace
It's supporting human rights and I have a right to be
Here on this earth as part of this world
Not in the sea or sky, not boy or girl

This offends me as a vegan transgender hipster democrat voting Native-American-Indo-Chinese socialist anarchist hybrid illegal alien agnostic-atheist Germanic social engineering major dropout who only vapes fair-trade organic non-GMO decaffeinated French-pressed compressed and hydrated extra-skim grass-fed only protein soy breast milk on the regular and does Hindi Kama Sutra naked crossfit hot yoga 5 times a week. And frankly, since I am also a non-binary tri-gender genderqueer male feminist and I identify as a proponent to legalize cannabis and a Rastafarian, pansexual, genderfluid, Apache helicopter beta mutt of mega multi alpha beta gamma delta omega combo god of hyper death who's adamant about polygamous polyamorous relationships with an pure-bred alpha chihuahua which helped me cross the border of Mexico to let love trump the hate and get a job 3-D printing pink ***** hats all day. My dog also walks me to the local skate park and doggy styles me, while my gender neutral photographer neighbor takes pictures and sells them on the dark web antifa site and if you find that weird you're an ignorant arrogant homophobic gender-assuming globophobic bloodthirsty bacon-loving gun-toting cis-gender pan-****** patriarchal incestuous sexist racist white-privileged misogynistic populist biased objectified white-privileged anti-communist **** indoor tanning Cheetos cheese-puff-loving republican.

I'm sorry that my back broke
when it was suddenly weighed down
by the ******* I no longer want
and that you had to pick up the
pieces of my spine, despite being
the second to know.

I regret that, in the aftermath,
there has been only regression
into my old habit of feeling a strong
itch coursing through my veins
and pulsing beneath my skin,
leaving me with fanciful thoughts
of scratching my skin raw.

But words cannot adequately
describe how badly I want
to figure out how to properly
thank you for being as amazing
as you are, never showing the
slightest hint of disappointment
that I've gotten back into old
habits of thinking far too much,
and holding my hand across the
tightrope of being genderqueer.

There are an infinite number
of ways in which I love you.

i went to the doctor today

i cried before i went in
not because of the doctor

but because of my father

he tells me i have to grow my hair out
i have to be a good little girl

i'm not his little girl
i was only pretending

i am me
genderqueer
short hair

i will not grow out my hair
for his ****** up ideals
of the perfect daughter

when i am not his daughter
at all

Young reader’s lit is a lucrative gig;
Feeds slop to learner like waste to a pig.
We love to get them reading.   Ah . . . but what?
Such open-minded offal as would shut
The hallowed sluice of Wisdom in a blink.
Grand waste of authorship, paper and ink
Noble trees pulped, and presses run—for this?
Distasteful tales and messages that miss
By so far they ought never have been told
Let alone color-printed, bound and sold.
Grotesqueries and morbid cultural rot
Raw ugliness (intentional or not)
Drips forth from this modern infantile lit
For any reasonable end unfit.
Behold P.C. fluffery, ethnic vibes
(Half of it scribed by lost Israelite tribes)
Global fables for our brave new deviants
Multi Kulti nonsense; non-experience:
Mafupe’s New Ungwa, Tano Means Five
Sho-Sho Goes the Wira-Wira.  Such jive . . .
My, such juvenile literary news
Serving to propagate progressive views:
Tia Fulana the Red Agitator
Grand Dad’s a Genderqueer Instigator . . .
Frida: Surrealist Queen of Misfit Art
Smelly Joe’s Super-Duper Stinky ****
Pages that dribble like a sneeze-filled rag
Well-pitched witchery, spelled out by some hag:
Diego the Dinosaur Reads Karl Marx
Trani the Modern Mixed-up Kitten Barks
Volume on volume of frivolous trash
All New York Times-reviewed (for kiddie cash):
Zombies Want Candy, Jimmy Has Three Moms
Snot-fest For Sassy Sue (Special Ed Bombs).
Manga mediocrity, attention-span killers:
Useless mind-wasting library-fillers.
Humpy and Fluffy Hunt for Chocolate Eggs
Barrels of froth (more like the tepid dregs ?)
Squirrel’s Fall Harvest Festival Goes Nuts
(Death by a thousand cutesy bookish cuts):
Useless reams of mindless marketed waste
With effete tribute paid to vilest taste
A globalist ghetto hype-o-rama
Party that starts and ends with Obama;
Covers flush with myriad fake awards
Encouraging our failing culture towards
The darkened depths. And who should bear the blame?
Publishers who mutually stroke for fame!
Such propaganda aimed at your child
After being mocked, ought to be reviled.
To hail such shameful writing as diverse
Actually serves to achieve the reverse;
Revisionists (more like demons than elves)
Have loaded your local library shelves.
The smoldering wick of so-called children’s lit,
Foolish lamp of decadent light, unfit
To illuminate or to froth about
Thus wavers, flickers faintly, and goes out.

Here in Kentucky
We don't show our queer
Without a laugh or a fashionable button
I've learned my lack of identity makes others nervous
And I am a shotgun going off in the dark
I scare myself too
When I look in the mirror
Is that me or no
Or fifty percent and what half
And what half
Can I remove with a butter knife
And what half
Can I live with
And tomorrow
Will I be okay with all of it or will I prefer a potato sack
To my skin
Again

I ask you what do you think genderqueer means
And you answer
Nothing

You're not wrong

I just realized: I am in mourning. I am mourning the loss of my life right now.
A trans man posted that he was mourning the loss of the boyhood that he never had.
I am mourning the loss of a gender-free childhood I never had. I am mourning that I have to cover who I am. I mourn what I could have but don’t. I mourn.
I have lost so much time. For almost a year I have known I am genderqueer, but have kept silent at home. I am mourning what I could have had if the world had been easier; if the world had been kinder, gentler to me. If only the world could show love.
I feel my identity is unloved in my home. I feel it is highly politicized, dehumanized, unreal, not palpable in the air which we all breathe at the dinner table together.
I AM REAL I shout! See me for I am so real. Hear and feel me for my skin is true, my mind is true; I am real and I sit here with you.
I am mourning the loss of a childhood I never had. I mourn the loss of kindness I never had.
Please be kind. I promise I will always be kind.

In my arms, my dear child, you are not a political piece, you are not a distant figure - distant yet still held so closely in my arms and cradled like a child. There will be none of that. You are simply one whom I love, and I am yours in return.
Please love me for who I am. I am only human, I can only take so much.
I don't want to be your figure, I want to be your child. There is such a big difference.

Female, male, Homosexual,
Genderqueer, Pansexual,
Transgender, Bisexual,
there is wonder in
the fluctuations
of identity’s observations.
Hunger swelling
desire blooming
then in a sated state
receding
no longer needing
****** fulfilling.
A curiosity
how such complexities
reveal humanity’s variety.
Not to be feared or hated
but celebrated and elevated
for the chance to see
something different from you and me
cause life is boring
without the beauty of novelty.

one. i graduate in (now) seven days, and i'm happy, scared, stoked and excited.
two. i am not the best writer
three. but it makes me happy and on somedays, it makes me feel alive
four. i'm genderqueer
five. i am a first gen. college student
six. self-harm didn't help. self-harm didn't help. self. harm. didn't. help.
seven. death is a scary, cravable thing
eight. i need to get my **** together
nine. free verse poetry is the best poetry
ten. my loyalty is earned, you don't get that immediately

Frumptart meets Trumptard: it’s bliss forever!

Rainbow twins make pink Indian Summer . . .

Poke your hontas, indigenous lover,

Till Twitter-dumb gets Twittering-dumber.

Having had my fill of a noxious brew

(Militant Marxist Genderqueer free verse),

My soul now seeks a less venomous view:

Write more poetry!  Dispel this global curse.

One who heard us was a woman named Lydia,
from the city of Thyatira, a seller of purple goods, 
who was a worshiper of God.        Acts 16:14 [ESV]

I'll say it straight to Alice Walker's face:
Veil for prostitutes and genderqueer beasts—
A color fit for hierophants and priests;
Symbol of both the decadent and base.
A hue unfit for tablecloths at feasts . . .
Scarlet is regal. Blue, too, has its place.
Let Thyatiran Lydia state her case,
But purple celebrates strange swelling yeasts.
No fault in bordering on indigo
As long as chroma stays within the blue.
But mix it up with red? Don't do it. No.
Yet, good contrast to yellow's golden grail . . .
What says the holy humble Murex snail?
Feel me: PURPLE is not the way to go.

What is gender?
Is it what you are born as?
What you choose to be?
Something that changes day by day?
Something you never quite have?
I believe it's everything and nothing.
An eternal spectrum thats meaning is everchanging.
Something that is interpreted differently by each person.
Gender's meaning is as wide and vast as an ocean.
Something that belongs to you and me. Be yourself no matter who or what that is.
Whether thats boy, girl, genderfluid, genderqueer, agender, or nonbinary like me.