Targets by Mattie Witman I always found it weird when people would ask my mother What she was doing with me in the boy’s section at 5 years old ask her if I was shopping for my cousin or brother but I don’t have a brother but society has Let my sister grow up thinking it would be a bad thing If she suddenly got one but even then, it wouldn’t matter But while fighting on the frontlines for our right to buy Whatever we feel, we still have to prove somehow That the way we love is authentic— proving my love is authentic is certainly A task—why do we have to prove our love to be true? Why do we have to prove to be authentic? I’m not ready for constant validity checks—type in the Captcha code you see—are you a robot? Maybe, maybe not The doctors always said we were but that’s not important Because she was—they tell us no and That the only thing that matters is our movement Complete docility in their eyes—those abstract lines on which They align their power and egos While we became ghosts and I still panic every time I go To the restroom in the union because there is no place for a “boy in the girls’ bathroom” – We’re no longer safe but even then, paint circles on our backs with the blood of Matthew or Leelah and we’ll tell you how art feels when it’s riding your every facet of existence just like the smell of them lingers on your skin when they dart their hand away in a store because someone is looking… We no longer hide in clothing racks and under tables in the store To escape the way you see me—We’re always there Hiding in the pages of your mind—in the dark depths of wonder And delusion you have about us…Our bodies are everywhere. But we are not. Just like we’ll never be—until they’re tagging us with our D.O.D.s and isolating our C.O.D.s Murder—they’ll say. Gunshot to the body and four stabs to the soul There is no spirit where there is no gold…but all that will glitter is the silver Table upon which our bodies rest not in peace but a piece of society That took it down with us—along with the rips and tears Along pages of our life that will never be bound again Burned at the edges…ripe at the heart of the words Ink smeared just like the blood of innocence – guilty until Proven guilty…for what though? Justice? Doubt that. Movements. Protests. Change. All becomes an illusion Militarized—shocked they don’t carry swords. Just like they carry daggers with their words And looks and postures so here’s a gesture from our brothers And sisters and everyone in between. From the graves we dug ourselves to the prisons we break out of On a daily basis to escape the wild wild western world Staking claims on land and staking claims on our skin To purge us of our sins
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