there is blood in my boxers.
each time i think it won’t feel that bad.
each time the porcelain cuts into my flesh, i’ve sat too long again and i
wonder if i can convince myself
to clean the wound and fill it with gauze.

there is blood in my boxers.
i remind myself that this is the way of a goddess,
a femininity more palatable than the “ma’am” that people tuck
into the back pocket of my jeans,
their hand hovers for just a second too long and it is invasive,
there is no consent. there is blood in my boxers.
i remind myself that this is the way of a goddess,
a femininity more palatable than the “ma’am” that people tuck
into the back pocket of my jeans,
their hand hovers for just a second too long and it is invasive,
there is no consent.
if i talk back, i am looking for a fight.
defending my identity is not worth the risk of
tripping into the open casket at my feet,
one i built when i uttered those words within myself:
i am a boy.

i am a boy.
then why do i wear makeup?
well, because, i want to feel pretty.
don’t you want to feel pretty?
when a queen performs, she is praised,
but i am thrown off stage and told,
that i can’t play dress up as something i already am (not).
thanks for everything, julie newmar.

i must be grateful for the few compliments i get.
sure, i am such a fine young lady.
thanks for everything, the old man in the doctor’s office who knows no
boundaries
yes, you knew me when i was just a little girl,
i got so tall,
i grew into such a beautiful woman.
thanks for everything, the sweet but confused lady in the supermarket
who’s name i don’t know

i must be grateful when you tell me everything would just be easier
if i just chopped down my hair and stopped wearing makeup, stopped
  buying skirts.
thanks for everything, person whom i thought would support me through
  everything.
but i am alone through this.

i am a boy.
eve and the apple i know,
the pomegranate and Persephone i cherish.
i am a woman, but a boy first.
don’t you fucking tell me what you think i am.
when they dig up my bones in 300 years,
they won’t find a man or a woman,
they will find me,
lined up with my sisters and brothers and siblings
in the shallow graves that you dug for us. archaeologists will say it was a tragedy,
a massacre,
you say it’s an extermination predators,
but it’s you

it’s you saying a final goodbye to your son (daughter) who you could never understand. it’s you sprinkling dirt over your daughter (son) who you just couldn’t love the same anymore, after she (he) made the decision that she (he) got brainwashed into thinking that she (he) could be anything she wants to be when she (he) grows up
because that’s what she (he) was told in kindergarten but she (he) went too far and now you have to stamp her (him) down, six feet under, because she (he) decided to defy the way things are just supposed to be because that’s how you say they’re supposed to be
and because when you raised her (him) and told her (him) to not try to fit in, it’s okay to be different, you didn’t mean that different, the kind of different that ends with you here
black veil over your face
and upturned graveyard soil on your boots.

i was a woman first, and a boy second.
and as such, i am my killer,
my priest,
and my pallbearer.
i give my last rites,
dress my body and my casket.
i dig the grave this time, and am the groundskeeper that keeps it tidy.
how dare you write that old name on my tombstone?
zeus agonizes as jupiter lays above him.
do i even have any friends left to write my name above it on the granite
in tacky flamingo? or did they die too?
thanks for everything, wanda mann.

i am a boy first,
but mom, if i said i’m a woman can i come home for just one night?
can we please just fucking pretend for just one fucking night that things are okay?
i can’t pretend the blood hasn’t been shed,
but i’d let you brush my hair just one more time.

there is blood in my boxers.
who put it there?
i couldn’t see his face, but i could hear his:
“i’ll remind you that you’re a woman”
i guess i just haven’t met the right man.
there is blood in my boxers.

there is blood in my boxers.
it has pooled, and i am sitting in it.
it pours from my mouth,
my throat,
my lungs,
my bodice.
my womb is rotting inside me.
i feel it spreading,
gangrene and decay,
it has overstayed it’s welcome.
but i cannot get rid of it before it kills me.
being a woman is killing me.
each “ma’am” and each murmur of that ancient name
pulls a strip of flesh from my body – agonizing –
bit by bit.
and when it’s all gone, will that putrid pile of rotten and bloody flesh
and bones
tell you that i was a woman?
is that what you wanted to know all along?
there is blood in my boxers.