Scars

My sister used to scream

That I was evil and that I was

A narcissist

So I tried to be

Something she wouldn’t hate–

Nothing worked.

My mother used to warn me

That no boys would like me

If I was arrogant or cocky

I had to be modest and sweet

So I tried to be

Something she wouldn’t lose in a store–

Nothing worked.

Now I am an “adult”

A trans man trapped in the body

Of a non-binary goddess

Struggling to stay alive

For one more week of this nonsense

Earth is a bullshit microwave–

and I’m not a fan–

I don’t want to hit any of this.

I used to worry

That if I liked myself

My sister would pop out

And scream at me

The way she would

Punch me and hit me

And berate me the way she

Could.

Now–

I haven’t seen her in years

I have very few actual fears, but

Seeing her is in the top five.

She greatly stresses me out.

I also am stuck

Being greatly concerned

About all the horrible things

She told little me to worry about

Like narcissism that I don’t have

And selfishness I don’t act on

And arrogance I don’t flaunt.

Alas I am here

Worrying, anxiously

That I am going to somehow

Make the boys I don’t want

Not like me.

I don’t even

Fucking care

But since I was

A wee little lad

I for some reason

Care about this more than anything

I don’t understand

Why does a sister’s opinion

Or a mother’s insecurity

Stay with me more permanently

Than the scars I gave myself

As a warning?


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