A poem about perception and being trans
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Ain't no bama rush to be a prop
No cute crop tops or girly pop.
No hot nights and going wild
No hegemonic bullshit on the dial
I wish I never cracked
and I wish I never wondered
All these wack expectations and models I can't become one
I don't like all these things.
all this makeup
all this shaving
all this stuff, stuff, stuff
Once I take it off, am I still the real me?
how much more me could I possibly be?
I don't see you seeing me the way I see me,
so what's the point?
I'm gruff. I'm buff.
I take out the fucking trash.
And take the lids of pickle jars.
Fuck yea.
I look like I act.
But this meatsack persona was dressed and cut by the rest of you.
I feel like a drunk butcher trying to make do
I want to stand in the rain until I become something new
Because I'm tired of all the blood
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