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


-Emma Catherine


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