Sometimes we wear our brands on our backs as plainly as our hearts on our sleeves. Hers are cut deep. She never wears white because the wounds always seem to be fresh and bleeding and the label works its way through. No matter what. Seems that the words are different for everyone but amount to the universe’s sick version of “kick me”. Doesn’t it? And our titles fluctuate. Giving those around us excuses. Like he’s this way because.. or let it go. She’s a …. So that’s why. And sometimes our labels get distorted. Hers says Womyn. Mine sometimes says man… or coward.. or child… or schizophrenic.. or quitter. But “man”? Man… that one can sting. Values forced down my throat about being a man. What does that mean exactly? Or sometimes I am “the man” and that is good or bad depending on the color of my skin verses theirs, regardless of the color the label bleeds. Sometimes it makes me a villain. Sometimes it makes me a warrior. Only I choose if it makes me, me. And I have had enough of it forced down my throat. Developing a bulimia about your ideas of what I am by the name you place upon me. Same for her. But harder. The one letter changed defines her nature but not her person.. Woman. Womyn. Hmm. Like a cross between womb and amen. Amen. Forcing her steps through a world that will never see her for beautiful because she wears her brand like an anthem. Knowing the subtle definition of the change of one letter. It asks a question you know? The letter… It left what it was for what it could be by asking “Y”. I don’t know. But for today can I be “child”? And you can be too. And you and I can kiss each others wounds and just play?

¶ 7:24 PM