Just her.

This isn’t an erotic poem but I make no apology for it. Please read my notes at the bottom of the poem. 


Born in the wrong body,
the tears ran down her cheek.
Holding him so tightly,
submissive and so meek.
She has no feelings for him,
laughs though he’s not funny.
Playing at the role,
desperate for his money.
Her surgery’s expensive,
and it’s the only skill she knows,
praying for the moment
he shoots his load then goes.
Her ad names her transgender
and he’s the third today.
But she really isn’t happy
because she really isn’t gay.
The men who call to visit,
pay to fuck with freaks.
But it’s not the sex she’s after,
love is all she seeks.
She hates herself, just wishing
that they could see inside.
She’s hollow and so empty
but they just pay for the ride.

He’s gone. Her façade shatters
as she cries hard on the floor.
Then heads back to the shower
to prepare for number four.
Standing in the bathroom,
the mirror shows her pain.
Staring at her body
she cries and weeps again.
The doorbell rings insistent.
She pretends she cannot hear.
She thought that she could manage
when she first conquered her fear.
The knocks and ringing stop,
she returns now to her bed.
The stains that show upon it
make her wish that she were dead.
Neither boy nor girl,
she’s trapped now in a hell.
to be the girl she wants
she has just her rear to sell.
She wants to be a woman
and all that it could mean.
Not just inside as is,
but where it can be seen.
But she can’t get there like this.
She can’t be who she’s not,
and that’s exactly what’s she’s done
and she fears she can not stop.
She wants to hunt down love
and these men are not the ones.
She wants to be a wife,
with a husband and with sons.
Her biology betrayed her,
deformed her at her birth.
Would she be better six feet under?
Safe within the earth!
The kitchen calls, she enters,
doubtful of her life.
She reaches in the drawer
withdraws a long, sharp knife.
Back on the bed still tearful
the knife aimed at at her groin.
Is this really all it takes?
Does she really need their coin?
The hospital will help her,
if she’s in desperate need.
But she can’t make the cut
that would separate her seed.
The knife falls to the floor
and she wails into the night.
Nobody will help her,
none who know her plight.
Her penis, limp before her
is the object of her pain,
the men will pay to play,
but she can’t do that again.
Lost in her confusion
with no end for her in sight,
she picks up pen and paper
and slowly starts to write.
Tears smudge the ink
as from her heart she speaks,
outlining all her failings
and the forgiveness that she seeks.

The funeral was tragic
few family, fewer friends.
A short life spent in turmoil
for who she was offends.

1 in 11,000 people are diagnosed with Gender Dysphoria. That’s over 5,000 people in the UK, 28,000 people in the U.S. That is just those diagnosed, it doesn’t take into account those who ignore their feelings about their identities. Those who suffer without saying, those who try and live ‘normal’ lives.

I am not among these numbers but I have a great sympathy for those who are. That is what my book ‘Her Name is James’ is essentially about (though James has very different experiences than the subject of this poem).

In Iran, surgery to correct gender for those diagnosed is encouraged. This from a society that condemns gay men and women for illegal acts. Yet, in the ‘civilised’ world, we point, stare and for some reason, think it funny to spot a woman with an Adam’s apple.

7 thoughts on “Just her.

  1. Oh my Gosh! Chris!

    This is a poem, that goes in the same league as any song, any film or any book, that has left me momentarily speechless, for the emotion and silent meanings behind them have cut deep. It is a very short list of mine containing only 3, yours being the third.

    I know how much this subject means to you and it can be seen there. That poem would be worth a 1000 speeches, a 1000 petitions and more.

    Thank you for writing it. xx

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Oh CJ…my heart is in bits on the floor, tears everywhere, can’t say more as I can’t see to type properly but I will say this…this is so painfully beautiful, well done my friend

    Sal x


  3. Thank you Grace, AJ and SJ. This is a poem that continues to haunt me.

    I had an English teacher (Mr Colin Jackman) who said all writing should evoke an emotion. I’ve never forgotten that. The pain in this poem is harnessed from my own insecurities of ‘not belonging’ when at school. (That doesn’t mean my time at school was so harsh, merely that my interpretation of it at the time was angst ridden and selfish).

    I hope to revisit this theme. In a world of six billion people, how can we isolate any one individual?
    Thank you all again.


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