I'm More of A Man Than You.

You say that I'm a disease,
that I'm confused,
or that I'm looking for attention.

You call me a dyke,
a faggot, butch,
or even "it."

You tell me to accept that I'm a girl,
to get out of this "phase,"
and that I'm not who you knew.

You yell at me when I try to use the restroom,
when I'm walking down the street,
or when I go to school.

Is there a safe place for me?
I'm beginning to think not.
Not in school, at home, or in public.

I'd like to know why you hate me so much,
and why you tried to kill me.
You know, when you tried to hit me with your car.

Are you mad I didn't die?
Pissed I jumped out of the way?
If so, please tell me why.

I never did anything to you.
I don't know your name,
and you don't know mine.

You don't know anything about me,
except that I'm different,
from the other guys, at least.

Yes, I have breasts.
It's true that I get a period.
I also hate it all.

Believe me, I'd kill my top layer, too,
if given the chance.
It isn't me at all.

There's more to me,
I promise.
You just can't see it by looking at me.

I love Edgar Allen Poe,
and paintings of cityscapes,
and the smell of salty sea air.

I like to play baseball,
I write,
and I can carry a decent tune.

I love my 8 younger siblings
with all my heart,
and would treat my girl like a princess.

You don't even bother to get to know me though,
because all that matters to you
is that I'm transgendered.

Do you think I chose this?
That I enjoy being trapped in a body
that isn't even mine?

My ribs are crushed daily,
my body encased in tight spandex,
just so I can look like me.

I didn't choose this.
So why the attacks,
both emotional and physical?

It just proves more and more
how lost you are
having to condemn me to feel better about yourself.

You're scared of me,
and you hate me,
but at least I know who I am.