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.