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by Knox Daley

They keep saying I'm confused, sometimes out loud to my face, and sometimes just in their brains, but it's still just as clear.
Not quite knowing what name to use, or whether my new-found appreciation for sky-high platform pumps means I stop thinking of myself as a tough guy (nope),
they hesitate to use either of the names I've told them I like, and revert to the one I've told them I don't.
"I thought you were all done with the trans business" -
sorry, doll, I can't just put in my notice and swagger over to straight cisgender society,
they won't have me, and I won't have them either.
If I am confused, I like the confusion.

Sometimes I can tell when the exact things I like most about myself, are the things other people think are mistakes-
as though I accidentally cut my hair this short,
I accidentally tattooed all over my skin,
I accidentally wore a mini skirt with hairy legs,
I accidentally speak loud and low, barking orders like a man,
or giggling and blushing and batting like a woman,
I'm just doing things like me.

I hate it most when the look in the face of my queer comrades says
"You're doing it wrong" -
that hurts because there's no such thing as wrong, not for us,
not when we're laughing and dancing and expressing our passions in novel ways,
they can tell us we're confused all they want,
we're still having fun.
Would you have it any other way? (nope)
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