“Children remember what they are taught; What they should do, And what they should not. Whom they should love, And whom they should hate. What is one’s choice, And what is one’s fate.”

Wei Dewdney (they/it)

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What We Are Taught

Children remember what they are taught;

What they should do,

And what they should not.

Whom they should love,

And whom they should hate.

What is one’s choice,

And what is one’s fate.

 

Children are computers

Storing codes and data.

And the teachers and the tutors,

They reach into the corners of their minds

And shove fistful after fistful 

Of corrupted files.

Ignorant and blissful.

 

Children learn and grow,

Some may even mature.

All those years ago

And all those things they learned

Will stick with them

Forever.

The seeds will sprout a stem.

 

Children are watered and fertilized 

With opinions from those who 

Anticipate our demise.

But it’s all just a joke.

Acquire an extended vocabulary,

Of slurs and insults,

As our corpses collect in the cemetery.

 

Children keep secrets

In well-hidden files,

It’s where they hide their weakness.

Their identity.

Their so-called “unholy” desires

So they hate themselves and others

Like them, to please those whom they admire.

 

Children programmed to hate themselves often meet their end too soon.

I hope you enjoyed the funeral service

This afternoon. 

You got what you wanted.

Blood on your hands.

I hope you are proud

Of where you stand.

 

Children die, wanting to be free.

Those seeds that were first planted

Have now become a tree.

With the swing of an axe,

Its wood is collected

And turned to a casket.

Buried by those to whom the children were subjected.

 

Children remember what they are taught.

Their shoulders weighed down

By the hate you’ve brought.

How to close our minds,

How to traditionalize our thoughts,

The reality is that this is

What we are taught.

Dysphoria

I creep out of the solitude

Of sleep

And meet my reflection with

A sigh

 

Of confusion,

As I still cannot recognize

That person in the mirror.

My body’s 

 

Surface area is

Disproportional to the amount

Of utter hatred that protrudes

From my own 

 

Eyes.

My ears are pierced

With rusted metals,

Engraved the words

“she/her.”

 

My voice lingers in the

Air as I laugh

And smile.

Who is that?

 

Who is that?

Who is that?

I can’t recognize this name

You have assigned me.

Who is that?

Who is that?

You tack paper onto

My forehead that writes;

 

“Girl.”

My head starts to bleed

What did you expect?

You stuck a damn tack into

 

it.

Who are you

To stick tacks into my

Head?

 

Who are you

To tell me who I can

Or can’t be?

Who are you?

 

Strange figure in the mirror.

Strange voice that fills the air.

Disproportional.

High-pitched.

 

Who am I?

 

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