A Gender Confused Soliloquy

I just don’t think I’m a boy

I’m not a girl, I think maybe sometimes I just get confused

It’s hard to tell the difference between wanting and wanting to be

The two different desires

Because you can want two things at once


I guess I must be genderfluid but I don’t know

I have never been a girl

But that hurts my heart as well as it lifts it up

And I get scared that I’m not even attracted to girls and that all of that fuss was over nothing 

And that I am a girl

That I had nothing to fear all along and was just making it up

But it’s not true


I just don’t yearn for girls the way I yearn for boys

Sometimes I do

But I appreciate the way boys are in a different way

Well, the same way

But there’s always that longing

And that pang of missed opportunity

That discomfort and wrongness 

And I should have figured it out by now

Which skin to settle in

But I’m a shapeshifter who never shifts their skin

Who lets the urge to change squirm around inside them

Letting themself convulse and double over with the strain rather than just give themself what they want


I was born a girl of the new millennium

And I see her sometimes, in my reflection, but never in the flesh

And she’s strong and happy and a woman deserving of that title

And she’s just like me

And she’s nothing like me

She’s in green velvet and her name means daughter of Ireland. She’s a warrior queen and she beams through her filthy face, skin stained with woad and dirt and blood

And I want and don’t want at the same time

I want that certainty

And to know my own name 

To have it roll off my tongue in a comfortable drawl

To know


Because I wish I was a boy sometimes

I think I almost always wish I was a boy

I sort of think I always have

Just not in the way I expected

Not in a way where I despised being a girl

Because even as a young misogynist

I crossed my arms and decreed that girls were better than boys

Girls don’t have to wear dresses or like pink or have crushes or be weak

Girls can be anything they want

I just don’t know that I really thought that applied to me


I wasn’t like other girls

Even after I read Caitlin Moran and spent my evenings on Tumblr

Even when I listened to riot grrrl and hung out with grubby wild women who painted themselves with blood and howled alanis morrisette at the moon

Because the sometimes lipstick wearing but unshaven strident feminist pink loving daughter of Sappho still wasn’t like other girls

And she so wanted to be

Even though she already knew why she never would be

But maybe if she just tried

If she just tuned out the things she didn’t want to hear

It wouldn’t matter

Because I loved being a girl. I loved the sisterhood and the raging and cursing and being allowed to be lupine and strange and feral and and worshiping Courtney Love at a crushed velvet altar

But I couldn’t wear a funny t shirt with fried eggs over the nipples, or join in laughing about hating having to wear a bra, or look in the mirror

All that sisterhood gets a little stifling

No matter how much you try to join in 

To be proud of every wart of your womanhood

Because In the back of your mind you remember that soul crushing life destroying feeling of getting your first period

Viscous maroon liquid dripping down your 13 year old thighs and a stale sweet scent like death

“Its only a couple teaspoon of blood”

Maybe it is for everyone else

But you’re a bluebottle trapped in a jar of honey

It’s not blood

It’s tar


Being 12 and your sister gently advising you to maybe think about getting a bra

Wanting to smash in your bedroom mirror when you realised she was right

And realising that your life was over


And you hang out with your brother and despite everything, it feels like you can breathe again

Jeans and t shirts and no talk about freeing the nipple or menstrual blood or girl code

Just existing 

And feeling awful for feeling that way

It’s just internalised misogyny

That’s all it is

You dress like your brother and hoard photographs of your father in the 70s in a box next to your bed

And you feel light

And you wish it was always like this

But then

“This is my sister”

“Then go do it girl!”

You’re not the same

Why can’t we just be the same


Does this mean I’m a boy

It’s the thing I always come back to

But that doesn’t have to mean that it’s true

I don’t think that it’s true


I mean in a way, it would be easier if it were true


But so much harder for all the reasons you don’t want it to be


I’ll never be a boy 

But I don’t know if I’ll always be not a boy


When I think of androgyny I just picture a boy

Not a man with a six pack and a wife and a job and 2.5 children

Not a man with a capital M whose name is Richard and who likes football and Family Guy

But I think of a boyish figure who skateboards or boxes and who likes to thrash around to punk and cry in a ball on their bed listening to sufjan stevens

I think I just picture who i’d like to be


I wish I’d been born a cis boy

Well not a cis boy

I’d still be trans

I think

But it would be easier

I could date boys and know that they saw me as being like them

And I could still buy a dress or a skirt

Except I wouldn’t have to worry what parts of me were showing

And I could do what I liked with my hair


I know amab people get a lot of grief

But I’d take it if it meant I wouldn’t have to be this


I’d grow a fucking penis if it meant not having to deal with all this

And I do not care for penises at all

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