A crimson crystal tear,
that sulfuric diamond waste,
races down traces of a forgotten face,
whose dreams have washed away
along a vanished coast.
Waves rush in, seeking
reaching with plastic gloves
a desensitized reminder of gravity,
the lack of jurisdictional prudence
within a human shoreline.
Residing with a dual shell,
a young clam is trapped
between incoming and outgoing tides,
their pull is intoxicating, overwhelming,
along their battered beach.
Am I her, am I him?
Am I him or am I her?
Why can’t I be who I want?
Why must I be judged on my decision?
I thought freedom was an undeniable truth,
then why am I persecuted?
You drown me in acerbic waters,
I get it, I’m your clam,
you drizzle me with butter and lemon,
to wash away that bitter taste
of your unwanted child,
the one that can’t decide if it’s boy or girl.
I’m your journalist,
I’ve got news!
If god intended for permanent genders,
he wouldn’t have created surgeons
to correct such a grievous error
in pious judgment.
So let me
to, who you should
This was inspired by a piece I read from Meg a bit ago and a situation a friend of mine experienced with his own child. I wondered how I might react had I been this child.