let's reflect, you and I, on how when I
was a child you made fun of me for
wearing my trousers too high or tucking
my t-shirt in or liking poetry because
that's not what boys should do. I was girly,
I was a faggot, I was shrill. I mean have
you heard how low my voice actually is?
Of course you have because now you never
stop mentioning it. Yes suddenly I'm no
longer a girl, I'm a man, I'm a thug in a
dress. I'm too loud, too confident, I need
to be taken down a peg or two.
LGBT I've been every letter and I'm
sick of them all. When I was gay I was
too frigid, no fun, too sad, too feminine,
you didn't want to have sex me so you
didn't even talk to me. And now I'm a
fabulous diva I'm a yas Queen I'm a
goddess, though I admit it's pretty hard
to feel like a goddess when you've taken
prozac with wine. And maybe you don't
like me because you're scared, maybe you
don't like the fact that I make jokes
instead of crying, maybe you don't like the
fact that I'm proof you don't have to be
a man or maybe you just fancy me. Or your
dad does. Because I'm a slut remember, a
slag, I'm cheap, I'm not serious. You cat
call and ask for a blowjob where you
assume that this transformed and
glorified body is for you to explore in
the back seat of your car while your wife
is away. Well I'm sorry but I'm not a
mistress, I'm not your mistress, I am my
own mistress and there is no master. When
he dragged me into an alleyway and tried
to force himself on me, you told me to
get over it. That his teeth marks on my
torso would heal if only I were quiet.
Then you lied and called me the real
threat, that my body made me a rapist in
a dress. So I'm a narcissist in love with
myself with being different for its own
sake. I mean you can say what you like so
long as you just like my damn selfie.
You say I need to learn that I'm not so
important that there are things that are
more important than my survival, that my
self-worth is worthless. You say it's
because my father left or I must have a
mental illness. I mean I have three bitch
but who's counting. You tell me it's my
sickness and you spit in my face in your
pub garden, or you don't but you laugh
when it happens. You stare on the tube
and point in the shop and you whisper
"that's a man", or "tranny", just so loud that I
can hear you. Or worse and most crushing
of all, you see it and you do nothing
because violence is not your problem
it's mine it's always mine. So let's
reflect, you and I, on how you've tortured
me with the word "why". Why am I like this?
Why am I here? Why don't I just disappear?
But the question is yours because it's
never been about me, it's about you. It's
always about you. So I'll let you gaze
into me, your own cracked and fragile
looking glass, and you can stare at your
own wretched face forever. Because from
now on I'll only shine it back at you.
you
