I only write when
my eyes blur the words I haven’t written
my hands can barely hold up a pen
the mirror shows someone who isn’t me,
when I’m hiding—locked in the bathroom
or fold myself into bed
only then do the words come.

I wish I could write
about moments I feel light—
seeing my cousins
for the first time in months,
waving at my friends
with too much excitement
but no shame in my smile.

When I walk alone
and it doesn’t feel like something’s missing,
when I Lordofon or Froukje
fills my tears on full volume,
I pass a stroller,
a baby laughing at nothing
and I hope they will never
learn how heavy joy can be.

And obviously all the times—
joking with my sister
until we can’t breathe,
messaging my grandma
just to hear her thoughts,
sitting with mom and dad,
not needing to say a word.

When you see someone crying,
You should help.

You saw her cry,
You didn’t help.

But I was bowling my eyes out,
And she was barely sniffling.

My grandpa said some harsh stuff,
I wondered if he’d had enough.
I tried not to cry,
Deep down, I hoped he knew why.

He said “Gender’s not even real”,
And anyone who thinks so should just deal.

I said, “They/them” folks want to be seen,
As people, not some in-between.
It didn’t seem silly or wrong to me,
In fact, I felt a kind of key.

A few years on, I learned to speak—
With sharper words, and less critique.

I fell and lost a ski,
The man helping called me a he.
I really loved it,
I didn’t know why but I did.

What should “being a woman” mean?
Does grandpa think I’m making a scene?

I never liked Disney princesses,
I hated wearing dresses.
I did like football,
Gender felt like a big brick wall.

My long hair, was to much to bear,
Cutting it off was a grasp for air.

Now my grandpa thinks I look like a boy,
I can’t help but think of gender as a toy.
A game you can cheat, but never quite win,
A myth I’ve stopped believing in.

Grandpa cling to a truth so small,
While I see no sense in a wall at all.