What’s in a name?
I am transgender.
Or maybe just trans?
Although I prefer
transsexual.
And the way it makes your
eye twitch in discomfort.
This doctor smiles, good news;
A pristine textbook,
says I’m not sick.
But the doctor down the hall,
his copy, slightly worse for wear,
well, that agrees with the man outside the bar.
I’m a tranny.
His differential diagnosis,
shouted across the street.
A true professional.
‘Lock it up!’ ‘A needle in the brain.’
Or maybe a fist to the face.
He can’t quite decide, he’s not qualified.
My parents can’t decide either.
daughter or son?
Did we birth a disease?
Don’t overthink it.
Just refer to me with
pauses and awkward apologies.
Yet another dinner date.
They always ask, and I guess I’m submissive.
It certainly feels that way.
In your bed. At my desk.
So fuck me til I cry.
Gods know I deserve it.
For I’ve long since given up
on trying to name myself.
To introspect and define.
It’s meaningless work.
To keep an idle mind busy,
whilst waiting on the executioner.