Refuge. In the employment I do not have. In the possessions and hobbies I cannot afford. In my faith that does not qualify. In the “sisters” where my femininity has no home. In the “brothers” that are there waiting for the steps of my feet in the street. In a lover non-existent. In myself, my true self yet to be born in to the shadows of prejudice, the gate of my mind, the gate of my body in which the state holds the keys. Refuge. No, I have none.

There is a mantelpiece where the accumulated non-existence of my refuge does (not) exist. Leading to this mantelpiece are the roads of society which have scarred me yet you travel down at speed. I am the ornament, there. A societal ornament of baneful notoriety. Always to be seen, to be passed to be discussed. Yet never it would seem to be truly touched.


Take me down, touch me please but most certainly not by the means of your personal ease. Do not take me for man, do not take me for woman. Do not take me back down the roads in which you have arrived in. Take me and place me on a new individual shelf in your mind with no others. Because by realising me you give me the tools in which will allow me to be free and you help create the world where we can do so for all those that we see. Don’t make me fit, it hurts.

A battle ensues between my active, academic deconstructions and my irrational, emotive, gendered eruptions. This conflicting duality is the cement between the bricks of my foundationless future. Give me that shelf, that constructive platform, to be.

I am not here for your dictation or your insinuation, peel off these labels that remain as a tattoo of the withdrawal of my liberation. My body, my mind and my spirit are mine and the choice, “the Choice” should be too.