I feel ready to pull the scab off.
other people use my name much more than me,
which makes me feel like it’s not really mine.
more than a boy or a girl,
someday I’ll be dead.
it’s no one’s fault. I get angry like a teenager
as I peel the wound back open.
I get excited for no one to ask after me.
I can’t wait to burn your house down.
I can’t wait to be done.

no more back talk. no more rage.
when I tell you there’s no place for me,
I get your sympathy,
but despite what you may think
that wasn’t what I was after.
I am most myself when I speak the truth without flinching.
I am almost never myself.
And I could fake...