We live in a society where diverging from the ordinary doesn’t make you ‘extraordinary’
but a freak,
our bodies deemed ‘incomplete’
by the owners of sharp tongues and wandering eyes,
strangers whose unspoken questions about gender hang in the air
like a storm cloud.
You know the storm is coming but ‘when’ is the lingering question
(It’s always there)…
Like the question that resides in the back of my mind
with every turning head,
pointing finger,
& indiscriminate stare
Is the discrimination that comes with their constant observation of me deserved?
When I am a woman
(but not quite a woman),
the curves of my hips existing as a juxtaposition to the shortness of my hair,
to be myself is to go against the ways of the world.
Man ⮽
Woman ⮽
Other ☑
‘We’re just trying to work out what’s under there’…
Love me
love me
not
(a woman)
Who is she?
What is she?
Asks the woman with the LV bag
(classy)
on the number 53.
Nameless
faceless
shameless
‘Am I the problem?’
I ask myself
at the close of every day.
Try
fail
try again.
Why is my choice to wear boxers over thongs
a prerequisite to a lifetime spent trying
(and failing)
to belong?
Portfolio of Hope 