September 16, 2016.
I wrote this in the back bedroom of my grandmother's house, crying.
transgender (dear, allison)
Our mother gave us this name.
And I want a clean slate.
I’m not sure if I’m supposed to apologize.
I look in this mirror, staring at you, wiping our eyes.
We are a butterfly, you and I.
Yet I’m the one yanking apart our wings.
I think it’s about time
that we talk about these things.
The windows are breathing again.
I think the rain’s pouring down.
This useless tissue? Just weights on a chest.
No, this was never a second guess!
I have two chests, the one you see and the one you may never touch.
I’m trying to give them what they want, I am.
“You are what’s expected, you are a daughter. Not a son.”
I’m doing what you told me, I’ve been saying that again.
But it feels very wrong and I wish you wouldn’t do this to me.
I’m really scared, Allison, put that lipstick down.
You know you’re just the demon possessing me.
I’ve been very polite and only speaking when I’m allowed.
You know, when we’re both alone together at night. But now-
You tell me to shut up and not make another sound.
Because I’m not the first ‘sick patient’ hidden behind soft skin and plump lips.
Not the first one who craves to be seen as a “him”
And Allison, when do I get any fucking air time to rant?
You get mad just because we’re just two souls on a fence?
When in reality, you don’t even exist!
What nonsense is this?
Oh, Allisonnn? You know, you’re pulling a fast one here.
You know, more than anyone, that I need you to disappear.
Got me feeling a little schizo, but no, you’re still trapped in my mirror.
All the voices around confirm my fears.
Oh, baby girl! My daughter! My aunt! My sister!
My mind, my heart, my soul, and the world is playing Twister.
You’d think it’s three against one, but I’m not anywhere close to be called a mister.
You can have all the backup and the ammo, but in the end, the war is remembered.
I’m not going to win, am I? Should I just give up?
The statistics say my life may be limited because we argue so much.
It’s kind of scary because I completely understand.
I’m just looking at our hourglass and laughing at our sand.
We aren’t trapped in our own body, not quite.
We are trapped by the perceptions of our bodies from others.
Now, yeah, sometimes I don’t feel like fighting the fight.
But I want the world to know that behind our mask, we don’t smother.
Poetry by aidan haskel
Read 363 times
Written on 2017-07-28 at 00:08
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email