even as I lie to the woman within me.
I wish my mother had then said, “just be,” when God
created ‘them’ and me.
Being unique, I’m rejected. Conforming to closed mind-sets
is difficult, as I try to become someone I’m not.
I’m brought down on my knees, my scars hurt and can take
it no more.
I move in with others like me, who care for me, feed me
most of all include me, till I discover the truth
of being wanted, only to earn through my youth.
Humiliated with spittle ridden words of abuse and curses
that sear the soul
turning to prostitution was not by choice, they would have
torn me to shreds.
I go along with the act to keep hunger at bay.
Does the soul have a gender? Am I to blame for this gender
My clothes that define me are just cloth to hide the body,