on growing up and growing old Poem, by Boaz Priestly, at My poetic side

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

Comments +

To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.

on growing up and growing old