War of Choices

I knew who I was
Back then
When pencils
were the only tools in our box.
A boy.
Entrapped in my identity.
Defined by my genitalia.
Expected to be proud.
A boy!

I knew who I was
Back then
When science included galaxies and stars
A boy.
A beautiful child with hazel eyes
But a boy
Was I proud, though?

I knew who I was
Back then
When my friends started boasting
Of beards and razors
The defining moment
Being in a biology class
Was I a boy?
Was I, really?

I knew who I was
Back then
In the sophomore year
When every one falls in love
For a while.

I was a boy
Who didn’t want to be one.
Hit by a hurricane of thoughts
Driven by the urge to end myself
Who was I, by the way, if not a boy?

An outcast,

The meaner ones said.
For I had decided,
To break the shackles
I was born with.
To redefine
my identity.
Was I a boy then?
A transgender
Would be more appropriate
(And less mean)
Thrown out of my house
Disowned and dishonoured
Stripped of my identity
Because your genitalia is your identity.
Apparently.
Who am I then?
I am Alistair Milton
No, Alice Milton
Or perhaps, just Alice.

Or maybe, just me.
Which is fabulous, if you’re wondering.
I am not my sex.
I am not my gender.
I am not my bedroom.
Which is crude, I think.
But this is the way it is.
I once saved a little girl from drowning
In the swimming pool
Because I am not a coward.
Definitely not a coward.
I am not ashamed of being me.
And if you have ever been
‘Ashamed’
Then I am judging you.
And no, your genitalia are not a part
Of the criteria,
But your personality stinks,
In all honesty.
I wouldn’t let my body cage me.
I wouldn’t let it cut my wings.
I wouldn’t let it choose what I am.

 

I am, because I exist.
I exist, because I deny dependence.
I deny, because I can fly.
And nobody else gets to decide if I can fly or not.


 

 

 


Image Source: pixabay.com


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