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 thing
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 
you 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.

 

These changes are an iron maiden
that pierces the soul, bleeds  away
any hope we have of being ourselves
in a world that insists that the twisted shell
is the truth of us and forces us to pretend
that we are 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.