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
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
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.