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"Excuse me ma’am this is the men’s toilet”
“Excuse me miss, that’s the men’s changing room”
“Excuse me madame, the women’s section is over there”
“Excuse me young lady, are you interested in a tester of this perfume?”
Excuse me doesn’t excuse you
I’m aware of where I am.
Did it ever cross your mind that I’m in there because
I’m a boy, I’m a man, I’m a sir, I’m a mr.
Why do I have to bind my chest,
deepen my voice,
cut my hair,
wear these baggy clothes to hide my curves and watch what I say in
case the gender you’ve been told I am my entire life peeps out through
the curtains of the gender I am.
“She, her, lady, woman, ma’am, miss”
The words that are said with no offense meant are often the words that
cut me deepest.
Each time I hear my birthname whispered in the distance a knife
protrudes from your throat and stabs me square in the heart through
this layer of material keeping my chest flat.
I know you don’t mean to hurt, I know you’re not aware that you’re
standing in the trenches of my war against life and each time you say
“she” each time you say “her” each time you say “daughter” you’re the
opposition holding the shotgun to my face.
So excuse me mother.
So excuse me friend
So excuse me sales assistant “simply doing your job”
It’s “excuse me mister”
It’s “excuse me sir”
It’s “excuse me son”
I’ll never excuse that pain that hurts much more than binding my
chest, than injecting in hormones, than removing my breasts, than
removing my womb.
They say sticks and stones may break my bones,
but words will never hurt me.
Words are the bullets in every transgender person’s suicide.
Words are the droplets of blood from every transgender teen’s wrists.
Words are more explosive than a mine, with each word another tick on a
timebomb ready to explode.
So excuse me
Tristan W Byrnes, MA
Registered Mental Health Counselor Intern
New Transition Therapy, LLC
447 3rd Ave N Ste 210
St Petersburg, FL 33701
Email: twbyrnes@gmail.com
www.newtransitiontherapy.com
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