Will I always be scowling, cowering
up tops of trees under stars, slumping
my shoulders? Will I always be media-
frenzied and flung under palatable rainbow
buses? Will I always be a warning a cautionary tale
to you? i.e. keep the kids away from
that one: a ‘genderqueer’ (sic) costs
an arm and a leg and hormones
to upkeep. Don’t buy it, don’t engage, let sleeping dogs
lie to me like I’m someone you don’t want to hurt.
When everything else in your life is sturdy
statements, why am I the question?
Why do I ask, can you love me (as I am)?
Rather, that you should (be happy) to love me
in sickness and amidst my unhealthy eating
habits. Thus I have (timidly) written: please
plead with me your case of shame at my
flailing sins, because could I not be your blessing
cloaked as that baby you once assigned and held?
Note: This is a response poem to Alex the Astronaut’s song ‘Not Worth Hiding’.
I’ve got something to say
1 November 2018