Pride

Glances wither, voices fade
Towers crumble, mirrors crack--
What's wrong with me?

This body that never
Was meant to be mine
This son who is always
Referred to as "daughter"--
What's wrong with me?

The bundle of sticks
That's a little too happy
The "I'm proud, I swear"
That's a little too sad--
What's wrong with me?

But there's this voice
This subconscious smile
That whispers what, maybe, I knew all along,
Says maybe,
Just maybe,
"You were born this way."

There's this thought,
This near silent whisper
That speaks from the cracks of the mirror that lied,
Says maybe,
Just maybe
"There's nothing to be ashamed of."

There's this idea,
This 'blasphemous' notion
In each rainbow armband and smiling love-poem,
What's wrong with me?
"Nothing."