Wednesday, June 17, 2020

A new poem

Identity

like nails in my coffin

this woman

this girl

this lady

when will it stop?

I am not what they think I am

despite this woman’s body

I am not a woman

nor am I a man

I am something transient

in between

neither

yet both

like a shot to the gut

hers

she

her

those aren’t my words

they feel like tacks on my tongue

call me

they

them

theirs

those give me comfort

those feel right

those are my words

© Indigo Fable Wren – June 17, 2020 – 7:54 am