I Am Not A Girl

I am not a girl
or a woman or a bitch -
not a daughter or a lady
or a mistress or a maybe -
I invite the saints to hate me
for my gender's inner glitch -
for the figure in my coding
with that strange hormonal coating
(thick and strong and always goading)
which arranged my mental stitch.

I am not included
(nor do I desire to be)
in the tremble or the flex -
ladies or the gentlemen -
in the suit or in the dress
that is thrown in front of me;
when made princess or a prince
my face cannot help but wince
for my female masking's hints
always seem to lie beneath.

One syllable misplaced
can send my skin to bleeding through -
in a category's cage,
in a porcupine of rage,
I am shoved onto the stage
in a gaudy, clownish suit
that I must pretend to bear
with the weight and grace of air
though the seams tug at my hair,
my bones, my brain (and eyeballs, too).

I am not a girl -
I'm a pretender in a play.
I'll suffer through the act;
let my bloody hand be smacked
as I'm called by names that crack,
twist, and crumble my mind's clay -
I'll hide for three more years -
block my tearducts, hold my tears,
and try my best to lift my fears
though they grow heavier every day.


~
Age when written: 15