Ocean Sky

Maybe Tomorrow

So you can wish you chest were fuller,
Yet I can't wish my chest were flatter?
You can wish for a muscular build,
Yet I must wish to be frail and weak?
You can wish for bigger hands,
Yet I must wish to be so small?
You can wish for wider shoulders,
Yet I must wish to be petite?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You may cut your hair for style,
But I cannot for comfort.

You may wear a dress as a joke,
But heaven forbid I wear shorts.

You may enjoy fairies and unicorns,
But I daren't like the colour pink.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

'These things,' they would say to me, 'these things are proof that you are a girl.' They would say things to me on daily like, 'these things are far too feminine,' and, 'I can't call you my son if-'

So, I think to myself, so is it that all these things, choices, reactions and preferences, the emotions I feel, the things that make me human, all of the things that you or I, the person to your left, to your right- even the teachers as the side of the room, happen to find a liking to, be it you are, male, female, non-binary or anything in between, have to follow the same black and white, hard, stencilled outlines, the same rules, these are conditions you have to abide by to brave through a normal day? These are the things that conform your gender?

Or are they? Don't get me wrong, I know every single person in society is trapped by some ludicrous stereotyping nonsense but for every individual struggle comes every new list of conditions.

'I feel like I love myself today,'
I beamed to my mother one morning.
'You must be happy with yourself, that's good,' She nodded and paused. I felt the mistake arise in the suspense of the silence, it gave me just enough time to wipe the smile from my face and lower my head. 'You must be over your phase, I told you, you are comfortable being a girl in the right moment'

And I am no longer loving myself today.

Maybe tomorrow.

If I love myself I cannot be valid,
Still I am not allowed to be hurting.
If I wish to be valid I must want to hurt,
Therefore I am faking.
However, even if I try to cover it up,
I am only asking provoking trouble.
Poking, prying, for someone to make a comment.

I may not have my own children.
I may not marry myself to a husband, nor a wife,
I may not travel,
I may not by myself clothes,
I may not see family,
I may not walk the streets freely,
I may not meet new people,

For I am not man nor woman.
But they do not know that.
Perhaps it would be better if they did.
Or not...
Perhaps I would be safer if they did.
Or not...
Perhaps they would be happier if I wasn't.
But I would not.
I would be hurting.
And I would be provoking, poking and reaching at trouble.

Maybe tomorrow.