For Coy

I'm fuming,
like a volcano, stewing;
these stories stir the pot
and the hot broth splashes
on to our mouldy kitchen floor.

Why can't you let us be us
And collectively
we can come to understand
it's not 'her' and 'he'
it's 'us' and 'me'.

A fluffy skirt doesn't mark a fairy,
Or a fruit,
Or a fag.
It marks an individual
so original
I hope they scare you right out of your pants.

And into a dress.