Tripping. My mind operates in waves and ripples of smells, touches, sounds and scenes. In it, I
am a receptor of many different elements. There’s rage, there’s lust, there is pride and there is shame.
My mind is at one minute in peace, another minute in turmoil. And it’s all because it’s a daily struggle to
be. If it’s not the fear of being read, it’s my self -critique. How you leave the house on 10 and by the time
you arrive at the train you at a one?

I guess it’s time for a formal introduction of sorts. My skin is the color of a Hershey bar flecked
with gold hints and period of blackness. I stand 5’10 tall. I have the frame of someone who doesn’t miss
a meal but retain a structure that downplays my girth. Did I mention my large thighs, my cute Estradiol
fed breasts A’s ,I think. I ’ve never been fitted. My almond brown eyes, accentuated almost daily by
mascara and adorned on top with pretty colors that make them more fascinating than they truly are and
adds some allure to my four eyes. In another time, society, land I might be regarded as beautiful. But in
my homeland, my country tis of thee, home of the brave and the free, I’m largely derided as ugly even
most so by people who look like me. Did I mention my glorious but not yet substantial garden of kinky
tresses? Tresses I no longer comb, no longer hide by wigs or conform via weave/heat/perm. I have yet
to confront the pieces of me from head to toe, a to z. Those pieces something about those pieces, the
prominence of pieces. The values placed, the worthlessness, the impressions attached on my pieces and
parts. Fuck my brain and screw my heart ! Did I mention the label of boy? The separation of colors, the divvy of toys, clothes, names and
roles in games. My lifelong switch, my struggle still of what to do with my hands, my wrists. My hands
calloused internally by the balling of my fists and my proclivity to violence, the legacy of a punk/fag

childhood in seclusion sucked into the delusion I could hide who I am and who I would become. Oh the
stages, the fantastic scenes, my drama, comedy action thriller.

Nowadays I give ‘em strong, black woman pose. It’s in my favor that I appear as the stock beast
all Jemima smiles and shiny skin. I’m an expert in languages and posing. I’m immune to the micro
aggressions and I have a saucy tongue ready. I’m not angry. I smile at the men afraid to meet my eyes. I
smile at the women who make it a point to meet mine and in a second read and rip with a look of
supreme bitch superiority. But inside overall I’m breaking up in pieces.

Stop Switching
You so smart, you do good in school
Oooh look how black ya neck is
You will be such a handsome, strong chocolate man
Why none of them lil girls ya girlfriend?
That is damnation, that is wrong?
Why do you wanna kiss a boy?
Why ya pants so tight?
Why you get weave added to ya cornrows?
Why can’ t you just be a man?
You too big to walk around like that
Sorry no fats,no fems
You never come around no more
How come we never see you?
You can’t fight the world
That’s just the way it is

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