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Every time someone asks me about my gender, I get a stomach ache in my brain, Palms sweat as a battle between truths and lies appear,
When you look at me What do you see? Should I be in a tree Or playing with Barbies? Racing the boys Jumping rope with the girls? Can't I just get sick In a tilt-a-whirl? Why must I choose
This is a confession, handcuffed, miranda righted confession I killed a girl. I killed a girl and I liked it but- I hate to say that she never existed.