When I was born

They saw me, and called me

“Girl.”

 

And they were not wrong—

I love pretty pink

And fetching flowers

And darling dresses.

 

But the box

That my femininity puts me in

Burns

My skin

And breaks

My bones.

 

The way

That my desire to be heldandkissedandloved

Is just another measure

Of my status as a

 

Woman

Makes me gag.

It is worse

Than the feeling

Of a man’s hands on my skin,

Because at least they

Don’t pretend that it’s

For my sake. 

 

If I could be held

By a man

Who had never been hurt

And know

That he loved me the way he did—

Delicately,

Kindly,

Selflessly—

Because he loved me

And not because it was

The Right Thing To Do,

I might be satisfied

With the title of

Woman.

 

Until then,

You will call me only

By my name.