Fe/male
I hate it—
this feminine nature,
this thing I’m told
to love, to own,
to celebrate in silk and softness—
but all it brings is war inside my bones.
No—
I don’t want to be anything else.
But I still want to rip it off,
this cursed body that made me female.
Some say it means iron man—
I say it means long suffering.
I am the storm behind a sweet face,
the mood that snaps,
the eyes that blaze,
the mouth that bites itself in shame—
and here I am.
Fe. Male.
A word that burns my throat
and drips like acid from my tongue.
I wish I could change—
but change to what?
A boy? A man?
That doesn’t fit.
That was never the fix.
And still, I can’t stomach what I am.
I don’t want them.
Not men. Not women.
Not anyone.
Gender is a joke with no punchline.
Sex? A dead word.
Love? A foreign language,
every syllable harsh and unpronounceable.
Touch feels like betrayal,
and being seen
is a kind of violence.
So here I am—
caught between meaning and meaninglessness.
A gendered ghost
haunting my own reflection.
Fuck you, universe.
You're such a funny bitch.
I hate me.
But I wrote me.
And maybe that means
I’m still here.
