Dear Gender Assumption,
My hair does not define who I am.
My shirt does not define who I am.
With crinkled eyes you classify the gender of my binary clothing.
Harmless,
what's wrong?
I ran home with your harsh assumption and raked its nails down my legs, up my arms.
I am comfortable in this body,
I am not comfortable lying.
Your eyes are clouded over with black and white.
There is no grey,
no reason,
only wrong and right.
No color,
no freedom,
only straight lines.
"This is right. I am right. You are wrong."
A pile of blades, thank you.
Dear Gender Assumption,
Stop glaring at ideas that are too brilliantly lit for you to see clearly.
Yours Truly,
The Girl You Called Young Man
