I don't remember
Who was the first person
That I taught me
How to hate myself.
It may have been
My younger brother.
Or the kids
In the rural schoolyard
Upon starting kindergarten
Attacking verbally
And physically
For being different.
Not sure
If it's a mercy
Or a curse.
Having forgotten
Those young boys’ name
Who taught me
Being openly transgender
Is playing Russian Roulette
With one's life.
In publicly saying
I wanted to be
Wonder Woman
At the age of 7
During the 1970s.
Spending the next 28 years
In destructive self-denial
Thoughts of daily self-harming
Never far away.
Viewing life
A living death penalty
Without any appeals
Or hint of parole.
Hoping
Never waking up
Next morning
After a night’s sleep.
Anger grows
Having survived
Through the night.
As I move around
The edges of society
Seeking the promised land
From the wasteland
I have walked.
Therisa © 2018
Author's note: From most of my life, I have endure the verbal, physical and mental abuse from others, because I was different. In the case of my family, my mother smothered and manipulated me, taking every major decision out of my hands, as she tried to protect the 4 year old child, who came upstairs, with her mouth blown wide open from electrical burns. As for my younger brother, he’s a narcissistic person, who needs the attention of others.
A poem for Poets United’s midweek motif writing prompt: wilderness.
