Imaginary Things

I tried so hard for so long

To be some

Acceptable version of me,

A bite-sized, single-serve package

That fit inside

Whatever box I could shove my

Too-big frame into.

My poor attempt at 'normal,'

(And yes, I know that's

just a setting on a machine)

But that straight, cis

Version of "her" never

Existed. It's taken half

My life to realize the lies were

Killing me.

She was Plexi-glass and

Gelatin, a trick of the

Light a bite

Could end.

Angles, darling…

But there are no

Angels in America

It was just a thing to

Top a temple or a tree with,

But in reality, they were

Monsters with a hundred eyes

And four sets of terrible

Wings, not pretty women with

Kind faces and

Good intentions,

That's an imaginary creation

Of man, and mind

(maybe even mine).