Genderly speaking,

I’m fluid, fucked, found.

Trespassing into the unknown land of

Manhood

with my breasts bound tight

and a dysphoric dick in my drawers,

I try to become something other than

a biologically estrogen filled person-bomb

ready to explode.

Leaving behind all the illusion

that I’ve created -

dissolving as soon as I step out of my

Men’s sneakers,

Men’s pants,

Men’s shirts

to see that the lacy bra my mother bought

to shove me into a more feminine way of life

still cradle the orbs located strategically

below my feminine face

and above my hips moved for the sake of a child

that will never exist in my womb -

by some being beyond comprehension

for whatever person wants to look upon them.

At least…my panties…aren’t pink.

As soon as my hair was

chopped, shaven, left behind

and the “hypothetically speaking,

‘Would you still love me if I became a man?’”

question was raised,

my mother ran out and bought me make-up.

But the layers of mascara, eye-shadow, and blush

can’t disguise the face

that there is a Man

staring back at me.