Cured
When I was a child,
I thought I was a girl.
I was going to be just like my Mum when I grew up.
I harboured small dreams.
To work in a small office,
as something,
like a typist, say,
I could take
important messages
on the telephone,
type important emails
For some other
more important woman,
who thrived on stress
and drama.
Which I do not.
I would go home,
happily each night
to a small flat
and a small cat
and make small talk
and sex
with some man.
And smile a small smile,
often.
Pleased,
at my small lot.
But then one day they told me,
I was supposed to be a boy.
I was quite insistent they were wrong,
they were quite adamant
that they were not.
They had the cure
or so they thought.
And so I was
cured
like ham, or beef.
Bled to death,
eviscerated
salted, sliced
and arranged into
attractive packaging.
But I spoiled,
I became quickly un-cured.
There was no outrage or outcry,
no protest or campaign,
just a simple and enduring
act of escape.
and there is no small job
no small flat,
or cat.
No small talk or
man.
All of that died.
Now, instead,
I try to fit
the broken parts
together.
Content to just be,
a woman,
without question.
Not much like my mum.