AN ODE TO MY SISTERS
Trans. Transition. Transit.
Trans in terms of change, but on the inside, you already knew the destination,
And you had already arrived knowing that you were created and immediately mislabeled.
Pin-pricks are misused pronouns
And darts are those closest refusing to learn them.
Decoration is mistaken for identity.
Assumptions move in and gentrify neighborhoods of the mind.
The mantra: Hate what you cannot understand.
Your truth has been placed under a microscope time and time again for further study and uncalled for diagnosis.
Transition. A metamorphosis.
Uniting all of us as we crawl and walk and frolic and sometimes run blindfolded through chapters of a lifetime.
Your love runs deeper for your body and can extend to embrace your soul that whispers to you:
You’ve been feeling like your exterior has been a miscommunication your entire life. You may have felt like it was stifling who you are, but your childhood body was a martyr for your truth, a chrysalis to preserve growth and shed at your ready.
Your soul and inner workings feeling motion sickness riding the rhythm of a polygraph test. You are not trying to be anything, you just are. You are the pinnacle of making others feel at home because you’ve confided that there were times you wanted to evict yourself but found that you were in fact a monument that is here to stay. You are woman.
Your existence is a history lesson though you hold no responsibility to educate nor battle those incapable of changing with the world.
You master the art and skill of blooming.
You never ignored the voice inside of you that told you you can begin your life at any time.
This type of transit has no delays. It is always on time and you arrive when you arrive.
You’ve. Changed. Us. In our perceptions and asserting that your existence…No…your FLOURISHING is YOUR business. No one else’s.
You are the embodiment of self -love. I say your name. I give you your flowers. Preferred pronoun attached.
Cover photo by Bernadetta Watts
