August 26, 1994.
The day of my birth.
I’m assigned “female.”
Screaming, crying at the top of my lungs, before I’m branded with “she.”
Her. Hers. Female. Daughter. Sister. Niece.
T-shirts and jeans were my go-to.
I hardly wore dresses.
Nor would I curl my hair or paint my nails as often as my sisters.
Or when I wore dresses, I got, “Wow, you never wear a dress.”
I can dress like me, in jeans and a tee.
I can cut my hair short.
I can speak in chest instead of head voice,
I can pack and bind my chest
Regardless of what I do, I’ll never rest.
You won’t call me “He.” Him. His.
Son. I am your son. You’re not losing a “little girl.”
You have two daughters. You had two sons.
You adopted Matthew, but I guess you only wanted one…
Boy. You tell me that you know I’m hurting and “broken,”
But the dysphoria hits hard when my preferred pronouns are unspoken.
He. Him. His. Male. Son. Broth