born to be a clown,
a lover,
a poet,
a bard
building myself up to
grow into a middle-aged
trans fag, like so many
before me who never got
the chance to
and i know who i am,
spent 18 years finding the
man that was always meant
to look back at me from the
smudged glass of the mirror
i paint my nails red to
match the blood that beads
along the line of my jaw
when shaving, hands and mind
distracted by how much i
look like someone else
sometimes
but i am not my father’s son,
and i never was my mother’s daughter
i am the burning streak of light against
the dark velvet of the sky, the echo
of a revolution before my bones knew
to long for those that came before
and i am going to grow up,
i am going to grow old,
not out of spite anymore,
but because it’s what i’ve fought for,
it’s what i’m owed