In eighty-one was born a son.
By eighty-six the words were sticks.
In eighty-nine was caught a few times.
By ninety-five the shame had thrived.
And the wardrobe door shut again.
By ninety-nine I tried to be fine
Repression seemed the answer.
At twenty-one, a forgiven son,
But a resurgence of being a daughter.
At thirty-one, depressed and alone,
Now thirty-three, I still don’t know me,
But at least I’m taking an interest.
The world goes on, and I go with it,
I CANNOT AND WILL NEVER QUIT.

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