He. She. It.
No one knows quite what to call me.
Maybe because I don't, either.
Maybe because I was born with the wrong body.
Maybe because something's wrong with me.
I look at my chest and see orange.
When I say orange, I mean uncomfortable.
I mean wrong.
I'm mean... Normal.
I see everything through colors. People, moods, voices.
My thoughts are colors, too, so if I call you minty, I mean you're nice and calming and... green.
But not green, because that means stoic and strong.
You can be mint and green, but one doesn't begin to describe you.
People are like that.
One way, but not just one way.
We're all trees ready to root ourselves and spread out like we're trying to caress the stars we were born of.
We all bend in different ways.
Some are like coniferous trees, mostly straight out and smoothly going in one direction.
But some of us are twisted and crooked like Satan's sense of humor.
I know people are all different and I'm not a spectacle.
So why do I feel like one?
Why do I feel like my refusal to be a girl is making me into a rotted stump?
Something to look at and ponder on for a moment, but ultimately give up trying to explain.
Why does it feel like not wanting to be a boy is worse?
Why can't I fit in comfortably?
Why can't I just be like the other trees?
Why can't I be blue?
Why does 'they' make me so happy?
Does my brain think I'm too broken to belong?
Comfort is not my friend.
It's not a she or a he, but a they.
They don't have time for someone so idiotically complicated.
They're a rainbow of cool tones.
I'm just a vomit-like orange.
~Ty
YOU ARE READING
A Collection of Personal Poems and Lyrical Laments
PoetryThis book is entirely made of poems I've written over the years and unfinished lyrics/rantings that kind of rhyme. I wanted to publish them somewhere and I feel like WattPad is a safe enough place to do so without too much backlash. Please enjoy an...
