Waking each bleak morning
Only to feel that he not whole,

He rises to meet the extra challenges
Of another day that reveals indifference.

Within his idealized furnished rooms, far from reality
But close enough for distress,

He gazes from his windows to see
Only two separate sexes.

Which is he, one, or the other, or both
Struggling for an identity not yet understood.

That clinical light makes it all so clear,
His facade must remain his fortress.

For he can be neither one not the other
But both, joined in mind, body and soul.

Without his consent, he becomes what others
Can comprehend within their boundaries of normality.