She likes blue.

In those days, those early days

of uniform skirts and white polo shirts

where a sharp-edged susurrus clung

to every girl with close-cropped hair,

in those days, I was grateful

for our comfortable lie.

"She likes blue," you said.

And that's all there was to it.

In those days, I disavowed the shape of myself

hid in sweatshirts twice my size

in basketball shorts that swallowed my curves.

I invested hours in first-person shooters,

scraped my knees bloody while learning to skate.

I chased tropes in hopes of affirmation,

searched for solace in stereotypes.

"She's a tomboy," you asserted.

And that's all there was to it.

In those days, I couldn't face the mirror.

Couldn't bear the rounded cheeks

the plump lips and big, sad eyes

through which a wistful soul begged release

from my jail cell body.

I scampered deftly from every picture frame,

kept my shrill voice locked inside my throat.

"She's just shy," you assured.

But no longer was I so easily convinced.

In those days, in those final days

of silent submission to unstated standards,

I found myself in a different name.

The self I long thought I loathed

I found merely misplaced

a book on the wrong shelf

my cover false, but my story true.

"You're confused," you pleaded

but I could not play along again.

I loved you, endlessly and always

but long had I lost my grip

on our comfortable lie.

"He likes blue," I said.

And that's all there is to it.