I want to tell you my name;
it shouldn't be this hard.
But I worry you'll question
why,
and I will have to explain
each emotion while you
analyze its credibility.
I imagine starting over,
where the auburn woods
hover to protect me,
where I don't feel like an
inconvenience,
a reminder that I don't fit
the mold.
You'll ask me if I'm sure,
and the whole time, I'll
wonder if you think I'm an
imposter,
if I'm punishing you
by making your life harder
to pronounce,
though this has never been about
you.
There are so many, too many,
nuances to consider
when acceptance isn't guaranteed,
more of a "well, we will always
love you" through vacant stares.
I once told my mother that she
should have thought about all the
possibilities of who we could become
before she had children,
before we watched her face for a reaction,
before she said there were no signs,
as if our identities, these small
but crucial parts of ourselves,
were warnings.
Maybe it was never my place
to speak that boldly,
but I wish you could trust me,
without doubts,
without making it harder to
feel an ounce of freedom.
