I had to talk myself out of making voodoo dolls from your curls.
This morning as I held the golden thread between my fingers,
I kept trying to figure out a less psychotic reasoning for
wanting to wear you around my neck, or my wrist or…
as a costume.
Not your body of course
I’d never bend you like that.
I would never want to hurt you for my own pleasure
or paint you pretty as though you weren’t already delicate.
I let you shape me,
Throw shade at me.
“What if this is just a phase?”
Your robotic question meddles up my software and
I struggle not to pop-up error reports out loud.
But I am cornered and so afraid of being here
In this space between male and female…
Lingering, awaiting arrest for the crime of being alive.
Am I just a fluke?
I mean, forgetting all the women who treated me like one.
4380 days of trying every possible escape route before accepting that I was born in the wrong skin.
A body that bulges for breasts and curves for childbirth,
But leaves no room for the boy with an insatiable hunger to live.
I can no longer remember a time when
I didn’t need to be sedated to feel peace.
When bathing wasn’t synonymous with panic attacks.
When a glimpse of my own chest didn’t make me feel like a fake.
I promised the new sun to walk up to you and say,
“I just want to soap-scrub myself with my eyes open for a change.
I am tired of trying not to faint when I accidentally bound my chest too tight just to keep it from showing.”
You walked into my morning, overshadowed the sun…
and I, again, had to talk myself out of making voodoo dolls from your curls just to get you to understand.
That it hurt…
It hurt every time you decided that I am only a ‘he’ during play scenes.