It took me 20 years to get to this point,
and it’s still a fucking struggle.
Everyday I walk down the street and people stare at me.
I can read it on their face.
I see it in the way their eyes engulf my entire body.
They look me up and down and crease their brows and turn their lips to the ground.
“Is that a boy… or a girl?”
“Is that a woman… or a man?”
“Do you wear briefs or panties? Do you have a hole or a pole? Who do you like, and more importantly, who do you fuck?”
I’m here to tell you I am all of those things and none of those things at the same time.
I am just as much of a man as I am a woman, and I am just as much of a boy as I am a girl.
My legs are hairy, my hair is short, and what exists in my pants between my legs is none of your fucking business.
But that doesn’t stop you. You continue to prick and prod me, but I am not a fucking experiment.
You cannot test your societal products on me and I will not be bound to conformity by your hands.
You will not restrain me.
I was born a free citizen of the United States even if my freedom
is not fucking free, it’s costly.
Even if my thoughts and feelings and mere existence challenge everything you’ve ever known, ever dreamed of.
I am different, but I am not any less of a human being.
I am comprised of the same elements, my blood bleeds the same red, and the air I breathe smells the same as yours.
So stop wondering what’s between my legs. Stop wondering why I have breasts and armpit hair. Stop asking questions about answers you are certainly not entitled to.
Let me be a fucking person.
Let me walk down the fucking street feeling like my wellbeing is not threatened.
Let me exist.
Because I certainly let you.