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The record goes on,
As I pick my outfit,
For the winters sun.
Can I wear Pink?
Does Blue even suit me?
I guess we'll just see,
I pray they don't hit me.
But what about my face?
Do I put on a mask?
Of vanilla foundation and shape tape concealer?
Will it be my healer?
Or do I avoid it for my mental state?
Can I take the hit I ask?
Do I have the will to fight back?
What will happen if I wear this or that?
Will I always be so trapped?
There's no winning for me,
On and offline,
My expression and gender
So close on my mind.
Do I fit in here, or should I fit in there?
Again I'm lost—I feel caught in a snare,
I just... I just cannot seem to bare,
The snare of being binary;
The trapper being society;
The prey being me caught in their teeth.
These questions you've seen me write,
Are ones asked on the daily,
And sometimes yes they do escape me,
Trivial you might say,
But to me they mean eternity.
Constantly questioning if I'm fitting in...
To a binary, I didn't ask to be within.