because tear tracks scar their ways across my cheekbonesMature

nb = short form for "non-binary"
//trigger warning for non-consensual sexual activity and a whole lot of profanity

i tell myself i don't cry over youtube comments. 

because they say i have to be female, 
the cocktail of genes that mix up my bloodstream 
and build my body up every day

i'm shot through with estrogen 
like it's just scattered bullet-holes 
in the window of my skull

but never truly breaking

don't pull that shit with me. 
don't pull that grammar shit with me 

yeah, i love grammar, 
it's part of the reason i'm a writer 
and it's an integral part of that 

but, see, here's the thing:
don't you dare fucking pull that shit with me 
the "grammatically incorrect to use they/them as a singular pronoun" shit 

do you really fucking think i care?
do you really fucking think that a stupid rule in the english language
(which, by the way, is riddled with a number of idiotic rules
and as a french-speaker, i can safely say it's ridiculous) 
is more important than my gender identity?

because dysphoria's a bitch 

and i wake up feeling displaced in this body
and trust me, there is no escape from your own skin
i've tried everything

so fuck you and fuck your dogs as well because just leave me alone 
leave me alone to cry in the dark because someone can't damn well leave well enough alone 
and they have to pull the dick move of being an asshole. 

my body is a weapon 
nothing more 

it will never be home until i find a way 
to validate my gender identity to myself and to others

because people will always be determined to be asses
(although there are some, and i'm sure you know who you are, 
who are honestly lovely and helpful and i'd like to say thank you)

and do you think that when i put on short dresses
and lipstick
like the blood i could probably tear from your jugular with these teeth
when you smack my ass,
i am thinking of being pretty?

because when our neckline lowers 
as biological women we get waiters faster
and better attention when we're talking 
with short-shorts 

and sure, 
tell me this isn't true, 
but it's the price we pay for all the other fucking shit

like oh, i don't know, 
having an internal organ shed blood every month 
or not being able to walk alone or leave our drinks out of sight

being paid less and having our clothes made worse 
being objectified and made property of 

and the special fun of, 
when we tell our counselors about that boy 
that slid his hand up our skirt and kissed us to shut us up, 
holding us down with iron-hot hands branding our hips with an ownership we didn't want, 
telling us it was his right, his right, his right, 

they say, 
"But, what were you wearing?"

so don't. 


swallow your protests of my pronouns
it's my decision
and if i tell you i'm a neither, an in-between, a nb teen, 
then listen to me because i'd fucking know, wouldn't i

and don't for one moment
think that women have it easy. 

The End

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