She calls us “petulant, self-indulgent”

My voice cracks

 

Society says we’re hot for now

Look at all the new inclusive media!

 

Within ourselves, us othered folk

We're encouraged to race each other to be True Tranny Scotsmen

^TM?

 

Real enough, binary enough, diligent, unflinching

Because certainty doesn’t exist on a spectrum, of course not

I claw at my chest

 

The transwagon is seen by some as an opportunity

For me it has only held anxiety

 

She says to do my research, like I haven’t my whole life

She says I’m stupid for thinking I’m masculine

We’re all a bit of both, after all

 

What is this both anyway

Wouldn’t that constitute something not in, out, but between

And if not between, maybe so much more beyond

Is that my hairline?

 

Wouldn't it be convenient, if I was a woman?

I’m not a man.

I’m not a special snowflake.

 

Wanting others to see me, to know me

Wanting them to treat me the way I know I am

To go through metamorphosis and make my body into something

Closer

 

I clearly don’t know what I’m talking about

The tempestuous self-doubt

Immediately at odds with the calm

The knowing my true self

 

When people see with hearts blown wide

Instead of eyes set to biologically essentialize

We tired butterflies won’t have to hitch a ride

On the wagon

 

Until that day comes

To be known on the street

She has to accept that I’m just me,

Silas the 80% man.