He, not She


Ask 90% of the people that know me who I am, and they’ll tell you-
She’s a writer,
She’s a scholar,
She’s a daughter, a sister,
An animal lover,
They could tell you so many things,
pick and choose so many labels to define me,
And every one of them would make me cringe, 
you’d hear writer, scholar, daughter, sister, animal lover, I’d hear
She, she, she, she, girl, girl, girl,
I’d have to fight the urge to correct the people who know me but don’t know me, 
the people who don’t see everything about me,
Who can’t understand that my body parts don’t define me,
Who haven’t yet learned that it’s ‘he,’
‘He,’ not ‘She’
Because yes,
I’m a writer,
I’m a scholar,
I still can’t even convince my own family not to call me a daughter, a sister
And I’m an animal lover,
But I’m also transgender-
I’m also a boy, and it’s
‘he,’ not ‘she’
The name you call me,
The pronouns you use,
The purses and purple and the closet full of pretty clothes
and the body I never asked for,
It’s all a filter,
and underneath is this,
is ‘he,’ not ‘she’ 
This poem is about: 


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