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"Gender and sexuality are not personalities. A personality is not based on the gender or sexuality of a person, but rather the merit of said person."--Anonymous
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[Kai, 20, female]
I was born a princess years ago
in a land far, far away,
and burdened with a fearful curse
that struck at sunset every day.
Only with true love’s first kiss
could my gender take steady form–
but then I’d be forever stuck
as a slave to gender norms.
Many stories have been penned
about breaking curses with a kiss,
for me, that’d be the worst curse of all–
because then I would be cis.
My gender, it is orange,
isn’t that unique?
If you prefer boring genders,
you’d better think before you speak.
My gender is accessible
to all with an open mind–
except, of course, to one group,
but who cares ‘bout the colourblind?
My gender is the blue turtle shell
in Mario Kart, you see,
and all the folks who swear at it
swear, by default, at me.
Given that, it’s no wonder
I hide inside my shell–
my tender gender turtle
stays protected by “male.
Oh salubrious salugender,
I stand and salute,
for you’re the perfect gender
for this high-strung young tucute.
My self-diagnosed psychosis
has me down in the dumps,
and my self-diagnosed breast cancer
just turned out to be the mumps.
Oh salugender hear me,
and fold me to your breast–
truly, salugender, you’re
a cut above the rest.
What your gender actually is,
you’ve got no fucking clue,
but it already has a name
that means it’s fitted just for you.
The definition sheds no light,
it lays no meaning bare,
but you know all that you need to–
it’s very strong and prepared.
My gender’s like a Fruit Gusher
down inside my soul—
when life breaks the chewy outside,
liquid swells forth from the hole.
My gender’s a candy orgasm,
a bursting forth of life;
don’t let me write Gushers adverts,
or you’ll be in a world of strife.
My gender is made up of
little flecks of dirt
that attract water vapour
high above the earth.
Like a guilty man’s façade–
calm, composed, and stolid,
my gender’s as carefully composed
and equally as solid.
I dressed as Tinky Winky
for the local Comic Con,
but as it turned out, it was not
just a costume I put on.
It seems that when I dress up as
a purple creeper with a purse,
I become Teletubby gender—
It is, alas, my curse.
Through my rose-colored glasses,
nobody is cis,
everyone is neogendered,
and nothing is amiss.
All the peoples of the world
join to sing Kumbayah;
in my rosy dreamworld
where “cis” is against the law.