I'm in a rugby lesson.
I'm the only one who's
(unfortunately)
wearing a
tampon.
Split into two teams, lads!
I'm Mr Dwayne, by the way.
He ejaculates,
then marches over to us.
You boys! Turn your tops
inside out.
Shit.
Why didn't I wear a vest
that day? Why can't those
lumps on my chest
go right away?
The other boys do as he said.
I'm hunched there, expression dead.
Stern, at me he stares, then
promptly fucking kicks my shins!
What's the hold up, kid?!?!
I ask if I can change teams;
he demands to know why,
but I don't want to answer.
I shouldn't have to answer,
but I do.
I have things stuck on my chest.
To which, his jawline shunts
out a laugh.
What boy, what?! Nipples, hairs, piercings, tattoos?!
Breasts. Fucking breasts.
He stops laughing.
I'm sorry,
he says kindly, softly
as if I'd lost someone
close to me.
Instead, I'd gained things
that don't belong on my body.
You can change teams.
YOU ARE READING
Born Male Inside
PoetryI was not born as a girl; I was born as a biologically female boy. And now, after not being sure, I can safely say I know my gender. This will be a poetry collection about that.
