it’s not easy to explain, or maybe it’s easy
But i just don’t know the right words
or maybe i have the right words
But you just don’t know what the words mean
anyway, i have trouble trying to explain what it feels like
because it’s something i do know
it’s there. it’s specific. i can feel it but
i don’t know if we really have words yet
to tell you what it feels like. it’s like trying
to explain the color of a sky to someone who is colorblind.
how do you explain what it’s like if you don’t
experience it the same way i do?
i don’t know. all i can do is try.
i can tell you what it isn't.
it isn't strict, rigid. it isn't pink or she or
young lady or dresses and makeup and
the suffocating dysphoria that comes with those things.
living most of your life in a shirt that doesn't fit isn't
as bad, at first, when you are smaller, but as you grow
But it isn't boy either. that would be better,
the idea of having to conform
of having to pretend that i was 'he'
seems just as difficult. i think i would feel just
my gender is space.
it is a nebula made up of thousands of colors,
some that we can’t even see.
and galaxies that are so big we don’t quite know how to measure them
and a supernova lighting up the sky
and the fact that we are thousands of years away from the stars
and constellations that my brother taught me the names to
and stars and planets and black holes and expansion and asteroids.
my gender is the color red.
it’s the stop signs that are perfect octagons
and tomato sauce on spaghetti.
it’s ladybugs that wish you good luck
and checkered table cloths during picnics.
it is alphabet blocks and worn covers of books.
red is a surprise.
my gender is rain.
it is looking through the car window and everything is blurry.
it is puddles that seem as big as oceans
and rain boots lined up outside the door
and umbrellas floating off in the wind
and the comradery on the sidewalk,
because all of you have to walk through the drops.
My gender is me, and I don’t know how else I can explain it