Pretender in my birth-suit;

living and yet not quite alive.

Every other guy

can thrive just fine.

What they are

is obvious to the eye.

Easily categorised,

flowing with the tide.

Body and stature

matches soul and mind.

Jaded and green-eyed,

wishing it were mine.

Every moment ensnared

within the wrong design.

The pretending must end;

I’ve served my time.

Itching in this skin,

struggling in this fight.

Were I a man born –

not for the privilege, nor the line

signifying society’s views

on women: whores or divine;

nor to escape stereotypes

that are with lesbians entwined –

were I a man and

not feeling compelled to hide

and the words came freely

and fear did subside;

were it I could leave the shadows

and stand in the daylight;

were it I was stronger

against religious might;

and were it that I

no longer had to lie,

and my family accepted

or at least tried;

were it once I did

on love’s wings glide;

were it I was born differently;

were it that I was not I.