Maybe I’m just some asshole Gen-Z
PacMan swallowing words and avoiding
my own ghosts, or maybe my identity
is not something repressed but grown
like hair or fingernails, trimmed into
shapes that make sense, repainted
and groomed, changed with the times.
My genders stack like dead skin cells,
growing into something long and beautiful.
My room is littered with flannels, the most
non-commital brand of masculinity
I could find– #dyke, #butch,
#transmasc– but maybe I have it
right this time. Maybe my girlhood
was nothing more than bad fashion
sense, a childhood costume I’ve long
outgrown, but I cannot imagine
my voice being deeper than it is,
if it would sound more or less
like myself. Maybe I would wear
skirts again if I could pair them
with a beard. Maybe there is still
time to figure out what kind
of man I want to become.