You would like for me to be volatile.

You would like for me to be volatile.

To shudder at the sound of my beautiful birth name, to conceal it for any other reason than the fear of what others will do.

You would like for the scars on my chest to be deep, jagged, and something I settled for. Obvious, grotesque, photogenic, photojournalistic.

You want anguish, resistance, regret, boldness, Pride —

the quotidian will not do.

You would like for me to grieve a ‘boyhood,’ whatever you’ve decided that means, to have wriggled out of dresses and thrown my dolls away.

You want a radical, a lost soul.

You would like for me to have blue hair, purple hair, buzzed hair, piercings — an ear will not do.

You would like a martyr, a troublemaker, an inspiration, an apostate.

You want a threat, a ruckus, a butterfly, a journey.