I am confused about being confused
Why does this body
(the shape of my home)
Feel like an island in the middle of the sea.
Why does my beauty disturb me
And “pretty” offend me
How do I become my own bed again
A place I can lie and sleep
My breasts: pillows
My hips: sheets
For me to cuddle in?
I am sick of being a confused ‘thing’
I am sick of being a ‘thing’.
With my name being a beautiful beacon of myself
But my sex a permanent red dye
Soaking into my cotton sheets and thick duvet
Like female blood.
I want to be a person instead of a thing
(Sometimes I just wish my brain could be a woman and match my body,
A jigsaw piece that fits perfectly,
Rather than a corner piece from a different puzzle)
I want to be a person without pronouns
And an oil painting instead of a watercolor changing everyday
I don’t want to be a thing
I wish I could be a person that I understood
what I really mean is that
I don’t want to be nothing