bully

my gender dysphoria

plays the part of schoolyard bully

punching me in the face

with all the things i am doing

that make me less of a man

 

i spit something back

no room for being witty here

cotton candy pink and blue

stains my teeth

drips down my chin

 

girlhood feels like a rot

deep within this body

that i am slowly sculpting

into a shape

that doesn’t make me want to

hack it to pieces

 

but you call me “she”

and dysphoria gets in

another fist

and i can no longer tell

if i am crying

from the pain of you so

callously misgendering me again

and again and again

or the betrayal

because i thought we were friends

 

but you call me “she”

and so many things break inside me

seven year old me

feeling too big for a body that

is already like dragging

around a coffin

shrinks under the fear

of not knowing what i am

 

but you call me “she”

and dysphoria drives a foot

into my ribs

grows into this thing

that is too big for me to

keep inside and it comes

out as confrontation that all

too quickly gives way

to tears

 

because i did not

languish inside of myself

for nine years

stumbling through trying to be

a lesbian and nearly dying

as a girl

for you to call me “she”

 

i did not spend $175

on changing my name and gender marker

to reflect who i have always been

goddammit

for you to call me “she”

 

i did not make the decision
to have a needle the length
of my pinkie and
roughly the size of a pencil led
stuck in my lower back for
the rest of my life
for you to call me “she”

i did not risk

shortening my life span

to 40 years

instead of the 75 or 80 it should be

because people destroy what

is different

for you to call me “she”

 

i did not survive through

who i used to be

to become the man i am today

for you to throw this

gender i never asked for

back into my face

no matter how many times

i plead with you to

just give enough of a damn

to get it right

 

i do not get back up

every time that my gender dysphoria

is made stronger by someone

like you who

so you can look

me in the face

see the tears in my eyes

the tremor in my hands

and still call me “she”

 

the proverbial blood

that runs through my veins

taking on the colors of a sunset

drips onto your hands

because you can’t see past

the things i can’t control

the things i am able to change

 

you can’t see the man

that i already am

that i always have been

and you still can’t give me

a good reason as to

 

why why why

you can look at me

with my visible facial hair

the button clearly stating

my pronouns as he and him

how i light up when someone

calls me sir or mister

and still stoop so low

as to add fuel to the fire

that is my gender dysphoria

by calling me “she”

 

(what the fuck is your problem?)