I Am Neither Your Daughter, nor Son

When you try to find this
           and I know you will try to 
                      find this:

Mother tells me I am             delayed
           whenever I act 
                       out but I was not                     taught how to express 

“socially appropriate” emotions. And she hates that I dress            like the son she didn’t want;
             I was born an orchid         but needed to become
                        the vines I wrapped my throat in                   to choke back the words

I wish I spat out              instead of pretending to be 
           delicate for her. I wilted              my skin to try to
                      find peace in that red honey                                 because blood is the only

thing we all have in common—it doesn’t know “boy”
            “girl” or anything in between, 
                       like family, love, all the lies—            she tells me                       I am hers 

to bleed “forever.”