Bloke (Poem)

Tucked away behind layers of silk and satin,

pressured into a corner, broken and flattened,

is a boy, is a man, is someone about to choke -

for they are a chick who is secretly a bloke.

Not in a tomboyish way, no, that wouldn’t make sense:

he’s maybe sort of trans, just exists to incense -

merely a statistic, go on, make fun of his parts,

then alight the malignant spark of hatred in hearts.

Change your name back to normal, reversing the clock,

for you can’t use magick to turn your fanny into a cock.

As the hair that you cut once now begins to grow back,

it becomes easier and easier to remember what you lack.

It must be hard to understand why she’d criticise,

her hourglass figure or large, viridescent eyes.

Yet when bodies aren’t right, or just misalign,

who would want to deal with it until the end of time?