Abdication

I abdicate

my throne, I renounce 

my citizenship, I berate

my name I mispronounce  

and I try to care; just a single ounce 

boys will be bugs and girls will be bees 

king for a day, princess in my dreams 

but what has become of the one in the trees? 

sometimes in all of it, I just feel like a tease

I need glasses, but I don’t wear them, 

because I’d give myself away 

to the places I condemn

and even then it’s still just feels gray 

-October ‘20

Madison

I’m not a boy

at least not more than a girl’s a guy

I don’t relate to the way they talk 

or the way they wear their clothes

I’m not a boy 

I like boys, sometimes 

I want them to make me feel special and magical

and pretty, like a girl

Like a girl?

One of the girls?

A girl? 

A girl. 

I could be a girl, I think

maybe if I was born one

I feel at peace 

when they paint my nails and do my hair

 

Am I a girl? 

I like girls, sometimes 

I want to be coddled and held by them 

and have them write me love letters in a tone that’s almost sapphic

 

I am a girl, sometimes 

Perhaps more than I am a boy, rarely 

I am the space that’s in between,

the paradox between extremes,

I am me. 

I look pretty in a dress, always

I was never comfortable in a suit 

I look way cuter now that my hair is long and flowing, 

and my eyeliner just so-

that I’m convinced you would stop and question

if not for a second 

I am me

and I’m trying to convince myself that’s enough. 

-February ‘22 

Existence 

i’m so sorry;

the curse of a body, 

but I know we’re the same 

if we could only take 

our permanence away

I am a ghost of existence, 

a specter of your fears

my body’s not mine,

but you’ll tremble, so drear 

I am an illusion 

of painted nails and ponytails 

and the spaces in between your thoughts

I am a blossom

of flowers that bloom in time 

and I’ll bloom forevermore

-April ‘22

Advocate 

Growing up and getting old 

allegedly brave, 

but I was never bold 

the caterpillar becomes 

but the caterpillar does not choose 

the colors of its wings 

Or whether it becomes at all

Because the butterfly just is 

and that’s all it ever was.

-March ‘23