Mama, you cannot put this beauty on a bookshelf and hope it will reinvent, regress, repress, and resist the changes that span my spine wrapped in elastic. I am grateful for this body the Good Lord gave me, but it’s plain to see that what you see is society so diabolical in decisions deemed downright basic for complacent souls on a carving block. I enrolled in the school of hard knocks when I decided my life might be destined for coffins a little early for the peace of mind I get when called sir; maybe this is unreasonable but people like you and I don’t know the words hate or crime when we are born. These fists take form but I can soar, and when my eyes light up like Chicago at night it’s because Jesus Christ Himself might’ve set this soul on fire, so put my birth certificate into the funeral pyre. Every day I decide to live a little higher, back a little straighter, chin up and stubbled like my Daddy’s. Don’t be mad at me because this is how your God made me, because some voices in the choir in heaven might need to crack for your Savior to really save thee. He spent time with lepers and prostitutes so why am I so shamefully relegated to minced words, sideways glances and picture perfect pretending? I am too beautiful for bookshelves, because this is my one life and it’s not for saving.