This was written in response to a TERF speaking about a life she knows nothing about.  In short, I was thinking of one particular cis-person.  And, yeah, bitch.

A Bitter Taste

You say, “There is no such things

as the wrong puberty.” As if you knew.

Shit, you won’t even listen to us.

Tell me, what gives you the right

to privilege your imagination

over the reality of our lives?

 

Cis-bitch, let me give you a taste…

 

For us, puberty is a torturer that straps

us to the rack and turns the cranks

that pull and twist, distorting the body,

until something snaps, and the soul

rattles around in a shell that doesn’t fit

like seeds in a dry gourd.

 

The years pass slowly and each change

is a red hot poker that burns us

over and over, inside and out,

until we feel nothing but it’s fiery touch.

And when it´s done we are nothing

but unfeeling scar tissue.

 

These changes are the spikes of an

iron maiden, that pierce the soul,

bleeds away any hope we have

of being ourselves in a world that insists

the twisted shell is the truth of us –

wants us to be something we are not.

 

Ignores us when we speak out —

punishes us when we protest —

but you should know how that feels,

Is it any wonder then, that for so many,

death seems the better choice?

Everyone has their limits.

 

If we survive, we can transition as adults —

regain some part of that sense of ourselves

that we had when we were children.

Still, the body never quite fits

and the pain may abate with time,

but it never really goes away.

 

But the anger — oh the anger —

that never leaves, never weakens.

It is resurrected every time

you send some poor trans-kid

to a hell that is, for us,

not imagination, but memory.