I am still she 
when I am naked and there is 
no one here to hate me. 

I am still she 
when unshaven and my 
softness makes you question. 

I am still she 
when I am walking like a man 
so you won’t hurt me. 

I am still she 
when I am too tired 
to play the game. 

I am sick of pretending 
that queer theory 
is my maker. 

I am sick of pretending 
that my makeup 
is my saviour. 

I am sick of pretending 
that I am a mystery 
to myself. 

I am sick of pretending 
that I am some version 
of just like everyone else. 

I am unafraid 
of your god and his 
supposed hatred. 

I am unashamed 
of my body 
and its desires. 

I am unapologetic 
for that which is 
my nature. 

I am unsympathetic 
to your discomfort 
at my comfort.

I Am

I don’t want to take
anything from you.
If we can’t share the air
because of what’s up my skirt,
that’s cool.

Frankly,
there’s no rule
we have to be friends
just because we’re both femme.
But no matter what you think or say,
I'm not one of them.

I’ll tread steadfast
on my own turf.
I’ll respect your space.
Please respect my worth.
Who’s to say I’m not real
just because I’ll never give birth?

I won’t call you names,
if you don’t call me names.
I’ll hold nothing against you,
take my share of the blame
for my birth and
for the privilege
I chose to throw away.
I won’t even fault you
for seeing it that way.

Turf

It was my grandmother
who noticed the peeling red
on two of my fingernails.

“Where did that come from?”
She asked, licking the
Cherries in the Snow from her
tea and nicotine stained front teeth.
I told her my mother did it,
at my request.

She looked angry.
I asked why,
but she was too busy
shaking her head,
muttering under her breath.
“Who the hell does she think she is?”

“What’s wrong, Grammy?”

“Well,” she gushed emotionally,
“boys just don’t paint their nails.”

“Why?” I asked.

“That’s just the way it is.”
A de facto answer
I quickly tired of hearing.

Peeling Red

I kissed a boy on the cheek.
I was seven years old,
his skin soft against mine.
Years later,
our grown eyes met
and for a second,
I saw him remember.

Our born again teacher
kept me in at recess,
drew the shades
to block out the sunlight.
It was dark.

I don’t remember what he said,
but the gist was,
“Shut up and pray.”
He jingled the change
in his pocket like my existence
made him nervous.

He raised his eyes.
Trying to see God
through the ceiling,
or something,
he pushed me outside
for the last five minutes
of blinding noon.

Recess

I am filled with self loathing.
I am full with compassion.
I am hopeful the one
will balance out the other.

Such are the contradictions
that add up to humanity;
the do as I say, but not
as I live and breathe.

All it takes is one shitty day
to send the words cascading.

I drove,
finding fault with everything,
thanking the universe
for its patience.

The trees ablaze,
army ant lines of
cars trickled up the highway;
rivulets up the length
of a blade of morning grass.

Strung out on caffeine,
feeling fucked up,
I fast forwarded through
old tapes, searching
for a moment I could stand.

Despite the bustle
of the afternoon,
everyone and thing
seemed to step out of my way,
but I couldn’t seem to
keep the sun out of my eyes.

This unease lies
in my incongruity.
Normally my strength,
it is eating me alive.
I see the aging
of my ideals.

I am learning
from the young,
new ways to survive,
but by now,
I am over mere survival.
I want to live.

I am filled with self loathing.

I only cried a little,
but my nose is stuffed with cement.
I stood there,
too tired to fight the mirror.

I am fat and balding and grey.
I am losing the battle,
but that voice inside
has yet to see my end.

I held the tie below my neck.
I tucked in the shirt.
I tried to make myself fit.
I paid too much.
I’ve paid too much
to put myself through this.

The socks match the tie
ties the pants to the shirt.
It shouldn’t hurt.
I shouldn’t hate anything,
let alone myself,
as much as I hate those pants.

Fitting Room

Things get better,
but the root problem
never shifts.
That feeling of wanting,
on a molecular level,
to be the cause
of my undoing,
it persists.

Every moment
of light and of love,
a grasping line,
cast over its shadow;
I always fall short.

I want to go home.
I want to go to sleep.
I want to be left alone.
I want this to end.

Things Get Better

I made myself blank. 
I stood perfectly still. 
My words, precious and few, 
I kept to myself. 

I took their shit. 
I let it slide 
over both shoulders, 
falling into my pockets. 

The weight made me strong. 
The wait made me strong. 
I did my time, 
like we all do our time. 

At night, in bed alone, 
my fingers walked over my naked skin, 
digging their nails into my 
every perceptible imperfection. 

Tearing the surface of every bump 
left a scab, now a scar. 
“You can’t leave anything alone. 
You can’t let anything go.” 

All I could do was turn it over. 
In my mind, I could only surrender, 
but there is a part of me 
that cannot resist a fight. 

There is a part of me 
that cannot stand idly by. 
There is a part of me 
that cannot live a lie. 

That part of me 
is the reason I survived.

 
© 2016 Norman Victor Chaplin 
Some Rights Reserved

Scab To Scar

That feeling, 
in early morning, 
when everything is still, 
and I am so tired 
nothing seems real; 
I am walking 
with rocks stuck between 
my shoes and the soles 
of my bare feet. 

The sky is light, 
but the sun is nowhere 
to be seen. 
I am soaking wet; 
my bare legs 
covered in dirt. 

The nights I have survived 
might make me a heroine 
in some eyes, 
but all I want is sleep. 
All I want is to dream 
without crying. 

The nights I have survived 
leave me grateful 
to be alive, 
but all I want is sleep. 
All I want is to dream 
without screaming. 

And that man 
is at my door again, 
his limp leg 
scraping the ground. 
And that man 
is trying to get in. 

I am locking 
and relocking the doors. 
He is rattling the knob, 
calling me a whore. 
I am hiding in the bathroom, 
putting on my makeup, 
when he breaks it down. 
That’s when I wake up.


© 2016 Norman Victor Chaplin 
Some Rights Reserved

End Of The Horror Movie (When The Virgin's Still Alive)

Homecoming Queef is an act of defiance and rejection, a move to embrace those aspects of self deemed undesirable and unacceptable.
In this multimedia series, I explore conventions of binary gender, of feminine submission and masculine restraint, as well as core concepts of social propriety, calling to question the validity and truth of these tropes while inspiring the viewer to contemplate their own relationship to gender stereotypes and social class, the pressures and limitations imposed by both.