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©2018 by Jasiri Australia. ABN 4768 806 0833

It's not easy being queer: A Poem

July 5, 2018

It’s not easy being queer, it never has been

being out in a world where the standards are set for you.


and Cis.

And when you try to open up their closed minds to only find that the doors are cemented shut,

and a sign that says “No Queers Allowed” in red bold.

It’s hard to live in this world when being put in the “wrong body.”

And the controlling fear of not passing,

because for you, passing is the difference between a D and a C

But for me, it’s the difference between life and death,

fearing that the wrong person could find out exactly who you were before,

and then you could be gone.

Which creates the fear of being forgotten completely,

of not existing in the memory of those around you even after your death.

In fact, I can list eleven of my fellow trans friends and statistics say that one of us will be murdered.

Dead bloated skin in contrast of rusty, dried up blood caked all over their carcass,

the stench of sulfur and rotting flesh dictating the air because it took days, 



to find their forgotten body.


And it’s terrifying.

Knowing that there are rules against me and my people,

because thick, black ink and yellowed out paper said so.

Centuries old comments that have been translated and retranslated,

until their true meaning have been lost.

And the overwhelming fear of having words be the cause for your fall,

having ghosted off of the pages,

and thrown their pre knotted nooses around your inviting neck.

But when the pages of a book, thousands of years old, holds you,

controls you by a short stringed leash.

Are you really living?



I will not endure this any longer.

I will not let this all consuming fear take hold of me with its threats of an untimely death,

and the cause of my own parents having to write the eulogy to their only son.

I will take a stand with my clammy hands and a racing heart.

It is from these fingers that I let flow my emotions,

and these fingers will not be the fingers that write the eulogy of a seventeen year old girl,

whose only crime was being herself.

And to the voice in the back of my forever screaming mind,

telling me that I am crazy,

I say:

“It’s crazy to let this continue,

to sit in the sidelines and turn a blind eye to all of the hate and violence and inhumanity around me,

it’s crazy to pretend like those piling dead bodies, one right after the other, are not there!”

I may waver in my words.

I may shake where I stand.

And I may cry in the heat of an argument.


But when I speak,

I speak because it needs to be heard

And when I shake,

I shake because I am not afraid to take any action possible, 

at any given moment.

And when I cry,

I cry because I am passionate,

and hold truth in every word that I let roll off my tongue and glide past my lips.

Passionate about the equality of others, and equity of life.

Not just for surviving, but to live and be safe.

And I will not fear being forgotten, because I know,

I know that when I fight, I will fight until I win this war on humanity,

on self expression,

on Us.


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