I am too skeptical to believe in a legislation on gender that won’t kill me.
I have loved people out of sympathy and solidarity,
And— had sex with exes because ‘closure’ is just a word and I am too afraid to admit that the body that carries me has never understood desire.
But how did my inconvenient pronoun become an insult to grammatical correctnessness? I guess I wouldn’t have cared so much if ‘she’ wasn’t about rape reminding me of men who first taught me that vaginas were for structural misogyny.
Today I didn’t wake up feeling Trans. I am tired of reminding myself to not wear a dress so that they don’t call me woman, so that they can strip me for being unavailable, so that I do not become a man denying himself the privileges afforded them by gods. I am not Trans. Enough.
So, what would happen if all this politicization of love by white gay men had nothing to do with the fact that my body is a site of war?
I have tried loving myself and that hasn’t stopped the women who sit along Githunguri and Migori Road from giggling every time I walk past.
How is it that with all the documentaries, reports and stories of triumph of Queer Africans I still can’t articulate the unusefulness of resilience and “it gets better”?
Loving myself won’t teach me systemic truths or why I have to use “lonely” to mean “scared and dying”.
On phone I spoke to my nephew who won’t call me ‘uncle’ anymore because his parents are determined to teach a three year old how to do things with gender.
What the fuck is ‘uncle’ anyway for a body forced to pick sides because gender non-conformity is not a ‘real’ identity and the only conversation we can have about me is about pronouns passed down to us through violence?
Just because you have known me for three decades does not mean that I have changed: your problem is that I am too complicated to stay within imaginary identity for long enough. You are tired of my fluidity, dammit!
I write poetry to pretend that I am not dying but I know I have no real career because I do not even have enough evidence that I lived. All my life I have only written a single poem and it is about fear.
Stop me here and ask me again, “why are you such an angry person?” and when you hear the silence remember I died from merely existing. As me.