i was angry when i wrote this

and what if you
didn’t kill her,
but i did?

what if i slithered
up from the cracked
and barren ground and
made myself at home
behind the cage
of her ribs?

how did you feel
when i cut her hair
for that very first time,
and dyed it once,
and then again?

do you feel like
i am wearing the skin
of your girl?

do you keep yourself
up at night, asking
why your baby girl
grew into a dyke,
and then into a man?

you didn’t share in that
same relief, a homecoming
after far too long away,
that i felt looking down
at a chest that was bandaged,
sure, but was finally flat,
did you?

how did you feel
when another man,
that was never going to be you,
taught me how to shave?

what did you feel,
when the longer i was
on testosterone, the
more i looked like you?

never was made to
be a daddy’s girl,
was i now?

but i wasn’t made
to be your boy, either

the image i have
taken great care to sculpt
myself in has never
once been yours