A blatant lie from the one who handed them the rope.

When I'm tried for my "crime", you will be there, saying that I'm a witch, that I can't possibly exist,

Words straight from between the shapeshifter's pointed teeth.

You were the judge, the jury and the executioner,

All the "her"s and "ma'am"s and "little girl"s like needles full of poison, roiling through my veins with a vengeance,

Clouding my judgement and fogging my mind.

& It's people like you who make me hide who I am, internalizing my anger and fear,

Like a stormy ship in a bottle.

& It's people like you who say "You can be anything", then tell me I'm wrong when I repeat it back.

Because "being anything" is for the boys, and the lie that I'm anything but first came from you.

The thing you'll never get is that what's between my legs will never compare to what's inside my skull.

I hope that when they bury me, the guiltakes you sick enough to burst.

I hope that while I decay, you see your crimes for what they are.

And I hope your atrocities haunt you to your own resting place.

You took away the life of a young man, all because you called him she.