Some Gender Haikus
For You to Enjoy or Not
I Don’t Care:
I am seen at times
As a young, small boy of sorts
I don’t care at all.
People are bothered
By things that don’t affect them
Because they’re stupid.
When humans are trans
Or otherwise gender queer
Leave them alone, jeez.
Just read that Dianic Wicca rejects transwomen so WTF, you guys?
Literally one of the perks of Wicca is that it is an ever-changing religion not held back by antiquated dogma.
Even the God and Goddess are meant to be taken as metaphorical representations of the ideals they stand for. They are considered to exist but they aren’t considered to be a dichotomy of discrimination.
Anyone who isn’t pro-trans fully just fuck off.
When I was five, I knew the truth. I knew who I was. I even knew the language to use to put forth to others who I was. Who I am. But I was told I was wrong. I was told IT was wrong. And because I was young, I surely believed it.
When I was eight, I tried on my skin. My true self. And I was still very young, but I knew it fit me perfectly and me alone. And so I kept it to myself. I wore it under my more loose-fitting outer shell. I kept it safe and warm and I was sure to comfort it when it felt scared or vulnerable.
I was 13 and I hated that skin. It was getting older and grew itchy. It started to rot and it started to smell. Still, I begrudgingly carried it around and I told myself it would wilt and die when it was ready. Told myself I wouldn’t have to carry it around forever. But there it stayed, clawing at it’s itches, scratching its way out until it killed all my nerves and I felt nothing at all.
I was 17 when I sat in its presence. Young but okay. It had made its way out and I stared it in the face for the first time. It was sweeter and gentler than I had expected, when with it’s claws and scratches. I knew again what it was and that it was mine. It was a part of me all along but it couldn’t survive under that shell. It couldn’t hide forever. And so there it was, say on a park jungle gym in the cool wind of autumn. It was so easy to let it run free. Maybe a little too free, but that betrayal was something I would learn to live with and embrace. When something is locked up for so long, it is bound to come forth with an explosive energy. It’s okay not to contain it.
When I was 23, I hurt it. I abused it. It did not deserve to be treated that way. It had been trapped for so long and it deserved to be taken care of and cared about. And here I was, throwing it around to whoever would take it. Other young skins clawing it from the outside, now. It was falling into whatever traps they set and letting it scream and cry. Nothing to claw at this time. Once it escaped, it was out. But it was in pain, now, and I let it. I ignored it like a crying child throwing a tantrum.
When I was 24, I gave it peace. Not the peace it ever thought it would find, but the peace it needed. It settled into the crook of that joy and it lay there completely still. It found a home. Something that needed repairs here and there, but something comforting and good. It was ever yet still young, but in time, it would know the difference between being young and being unsure. This time, it was sure.