What I Am
They ask me what I am.
If I’m a he or a she;
A him or a her
Or just some kind
Of freak caught
In between with
No way out.
They don’t understand
My pain when
They ask me
What I am
With their
Lips sneered
And their
Fangs bared
And they don’t
Want to,
So when I try to
Answer them
And tell them
What I am they
Plug their ears
And keep
On playing
The same
Stupid game.
.
They ask me what my parents are like.
If my momma was too
Cracked up on drugs
To give birth to a
Normal kid and
Accidentally ended
Up having a freak
Instead, while
My daddy was
In and out of jail
For crimes
He said
He didn’t
Commit.
They don’t understand
My pain when
Stories about
My slut
Of a mother
And my
Loser of
A father
And my
Family’s shame
That is
Only topped
By their
Disappointment of
A child
Spread like
Wildfire,
While I
Sit in a
Corner trying
Not to cry
Because I
Know the
Words they’re
Saying just
Aren’t nice.
So as the
Stories keep
Circling around
And around
I plug my ears
And they
Keep on
Saying
The same
Stupid things.
They ask me where I came from.
If I was born
In some ditch
In the middle
Of nowhere
Surrounded by
Cutters, and killers,
And drop-outs, Oh my,
And if my
Momma almost
Popped me
Back in
When she saw
That her boy
Was also a girl,
And if I’m
So used to
People pointing
And laughing
That I embrace
It like the child
My mother
Wanted but
Didn’t get.
But when
I ignore them
They point and
Laugh and ask
If my boobs
Touch the wall
Before my
Head does
And why
I never
Use the bathroom
At school
Even though
They know it’s
Because I know
They’re watching
To see which one
I go into.
They ask
Why I even
Bother living
When all
I am is
A disgusting
Slob whose own
Body doesn’t
Even know
Where to
Grow and
Where not
To grow.
Every day
They say
The same
Stupid things.
But what they never ask me is if I’m happy.
They don’t know
That every
Day I go
Outside and
Stand on
My roof
Waiting for
The courage
To jump
Only to
Crawl back
Inside crying
Like a
Little baby.
They don’t know
That every day
I stare
At myself
In the mirror
Trying to
Find at
Least one
Damn thing
I like,
Only to
Start pulling
At my hair
And yanking
At my clothes,
All the while
Asking, “Why?”
They don’t know
That every day
I stand
For two hours
In front
Of my
Closet trying
To figure
Out what
The hell
I’m supposed
To wear,
Only to
Pull everything
Out in
A frenzy
Of rage
With tears,
Tears, and
More tears
Pouring down
My face.
They don’t know
That my momma’s
Taken me to
So many doctors
That we lost count
And that
My daddy
Can barely look
Me in the eyes
Without running
Away like
A scared
Little boy,
When all I
Wanna do is
Crawl into momma’s
Lap and have
Daddy hold
My hand
And tell
Me I’m loved
And forgiven
And fine
Just the
Way I am.
They don’t know
That I am
Waiting and
Waiting for
The day that
I can smile
And say
With pride
That I
Love myself,
Without so
Much as a
Blanket of
Doubt or
A drop
Of Insecurity,
And that
I am waiting
And waiting
For the day
When I can
Run into
The arms
Of someone
Who not
Only accepts
Me, but
Loves me
For everything
I am
And everything
I’m not,
And that
I am waiting
For the day
When my parents
Will look at me,
Not with embarrassment
And pity
In their eyes,
But pride
And support,
And that I’m
Waiting for
The day when
I won’t be so
Goddamn tired
All the time,
Tired from
Fighting and
Crying and
Falling and
Dreaming,
And that
I’m waiting
For the day
When I can
Walk up
To a complete
Stranger
And say with
Absolute confidence;
“Hi, I’m Taylor.”
Because that’s what
I am
After all.
Taylor.