matter

We settle.
We forget we
said what we did
and did what we have
because we're surrounded
by these people; around our
feet, painful shackles.

My mother
screamed at me
about how she has
two sons, and one
daughter. She
continued on
about how there
would never be a
place for male pronouns
in her viewing of me. She
went against what my psychologist
said and that, no matter what, even
if I came out to my father in this very
second, nothing would change. My mother
said that "this is nature," and I'm "still
growing." It wasn't her place "to mess these
things up."

People say these things to me
all the goddamn time. Because my
hair is short, a group of people sitting
in the back of my French class murmur
sharply, "fucking lesbian," as they
snicker. Darling, I would love to be
a lesbian. At least I could accept
myself, and accept my love for
other women. That's a
beautiful thing.
But I'm not
a lesbian.
Especially
not because of
my short hair.

My "friend" sits
two seats from me
and goes on about how
she hopes I get pregnant
so that my kid can love
Jesus and believe in
everything I don't.
She speaks of how
funny it would be,
me in a wedding dress,
getting married. As if
I could be desired, or
beautiful. And when she
sees my knuckles whiten,
the shine in my eyes dull,
the smile drop, the stillness
or the squirm: she laughs. It's
a game to them. They see it, but
a trauma not your own is all
fun and games.

The people around me
act as if it's my fault
as if I want to be this. Not
myself. As if it is an act of fun,
of wanting to be original, or different.
It's so far from that.

I stole a scalpel
from my class when
my teacher was not looking.
I'd never taken anything without
permission before. Nobody said anything
because they were disposable anyways.

I felt
so d s o n c e
....i c n e t d
that the idea of
fish swimming underneath
a frozen lake, the idea of
blood racing on when my life
was planning on taking a break...
... impossible, improbable...
and reminders. Keeping track.
Reality. This. I am here.
Except I'm not.

I don't want
to be me, and
as often as I pretend
to not be me, you'd think
I would learn to become
it. You would think, anyways.

I'm not that blessed.

I don't want to be sad.
I don't want to be a tranny.
I don't want to be a faggot.
I hate myself, and people hate
me for myself, too.

We settle,
not because we
want to, but because
we have to. We are stuck.
And these people who say they
love us: they don't.
And you think it
would matter.
But it doesn't.