If I Told You

Coming of Age
i am 22 years old, and
boy awkward in the fullness of womanhood,
a newborn grasping for new air, now,
a senior rocking to and fro wondering
where childhood has gone.
mother, your daughter shall never return.
father, your little girl never was.
sister, your sibling remains only in play:
that prince, pirate, adventurer, king.
that hoister of trousers and paper towel rolls.
that too-large shadow you sought to escape.
mother, auntie will blame you.
father, grandpa will lapse silent.
sister, our friends will pray for my soul:
that god, jesus, and holy ghost, three-in-one,
that punisher of gays and trannies should convict me such
that too-large a sin as this i should seek to repent.
sometimes i wish i could say that
i am 22 and boy,
awkward in the fullness of womanhood anew,
born grasping for new air,
now a senior, rocking to and fro wondering
where childhood has gone.
sometimes–
but my days of shadowboxing my own reflection are catching up to me
and i am dying.
the heavier my chest grows the heavier my step,
and i swear each month i bleed more.
i do not know how to tell you all this.
i only hope that if you find this before i find the right words that
i will be around to know and
i hope that you’ll understand and understand that
i am used to black and blue and all hues in between–
and so if you choose to cut
me
i will bleed a flood in the color of god’s promise sign and
love you all the same.
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