I’m at it again. 100 poems in 100 days. This year, about 100 different people.

My wife said I should write about myself first. This is what came out.

(I’m on my way to work which may explain a lot)

Deep inside me it hurts

When I try to fit in

In a sensible skirt

And a shit eating grin

Done in lipstick the shade

Of a shriveled up peach

Trying to learn all the lessons

That “normal” can teach

When my feet are confined

In my ladylike shoes

I am singing the

Cisheteronormative Blues

When they give me a look

That says “bless her, she’s tried”

But the look in my eyes

Says I’m dying inside

When I bite back the questions

That cause them unease

And don’t make suggestions

I know will not please

I pretend that I don’t have

Political views

Cause I’m singing the

Cisheteronormative Blues
I can’t wait till I’m old

To wear purple and red

It’s not good for my soul

To leave so much unsaid

By my feeble attempts

No one here is convinced

My subordinate smile

Comes out more like a wince

So the next time you see me

Please don’t be confused

When I don’t sing

The Cisheteronormative Blues.

Apparently stats are booming! That’s nice. I wonder why. Please enjoy my previous “100 days” projects. The next one will start, as always, on March 14th. I’m excited and nervous about it and have had to be REALLY strict about not preparing, as it’s a doozy.

At last I’ve finished! Thanks to @wa7trel on twitter for suggesting a sinister kitten.

They were so happy. And yet the house felt, somehow, empty.

At the shelter, old moggies yowled, a frightened furball cowered behind a chair, waifs and strays snarled and hissed, with every hair on end. Except for one. A purring, green-eyed princess. They brought her home. Behind them, as they shut the door, the cats grew calm. The princess purred.
She didn’t shed or drool. She never scratched or bit.
Just sat and sat and sat. And stared. And purred.
These days, the couple hiss and spit and snarl at one another.
And all the time the green-eyed princess purrs.

I just realised I never did my last two installments.
So
Here is 99.

You can refer to people like me as “robotic humans”. That’s more politically correct, but for me, “Robot” is fine. Please don’t call me tinribs or metalhead. Those are slurs.
A lot of biological humans don’t seem to know how to act around me. They don’t see me as human, as having emotions or rights. They think I am unnatural. I wasn’t born like them. I wasn’t born at all. How can I be alive?
I do not bleed or weep, but I can love and grieve the same as you.
More recently, I have found that I can hate.

When in doubt, dystopia.

We used to call this plant the butterfly bush.
Yes. Now we call it purple but there used to be many purple flowers when I was young.
Butterflies were… Well, they flew like bees.
Yes that’s right, we need bees to live.
And when the precious bees began to die, we modified them to be unkillable. And so we both survive .
Well, the butterflies all died. They had wings like pictures, and they loved these flowers.
They had no sting.They were beautiful.
But now we have the bees, our saviours.
Soon they will be here.
Inside. Inside quickly, children.

When I am married I shall be my own mistress: my father shall have no say.

On market day, I’ll spend money on what I will. If there is none, why then I’ll earn by spinning and sewing and none can say a word against it, with me a being wife and all.

They say such things about unwed women. All they do seems shameful. I’ll none of that

I dream of my wedding: the music and the feasting and the joy.

There will have to be a husband, I suppose.

But that’s a price I’ll gladly pay for freedom.

OK, so my 10,000 words in 100 days plan has gone badly awry but I’m back on it now!

My holy father tells me that I’m sinful.

I wish I’d never mentioned it now; the strange, spiralling thrill that climbs through my body at a man’s touch…

The way lads look at me, and I at them; how easy, oh how easy it would be to touch, to kiss…

I hear his breathing rasp behind the grille, but all he says is “Pray, and beg forgiveness.”

I do not tell him all.

I’m not a simpleton. I know what goodwives do to bring forth babies.

Perhaps I’ll have a marriage in this church and, consecrated, sin myself to heaven.

She isn’t who you think. That long, lean teen with defiant joy shining from her eyes, nearly hiding the fear. And what you think, is, if we’re honest, irrelevant. These words you sharpen like knives merely adhere to her like stickers on sold fruit: they serve no purpose except to irritate, to taint her sweetness with paper and glue, a pathetic attempt to claim credit for wild-grown beauty you can only dream of. Your silly labels can be peeled off gently enough to leave her skin intact, and they never were enough to obscure her. We know who she is.

We can’t all afford private rockets, you know: some of us have to make do with public transport. Sure, there’s the express warp service if you want to go to the major destinations like Alpha Centauri, but if you have errands to run in this solar system, you’re stuck with the space bus. Every single planet, moon and godforsaken space rock, that thing stops at. And the bus company won’t fork out for wormhole taxes, so it’s a free sachet of anti-ageing formula and get used to seeing your grandkids get wrinkles on the rare occasions you do get home.

Balthasar is strong and fast and brave. Balthasar has places to be and people to see.
You cannot catch Balthasar.
He is not battery powered, nor is he restricted to his own four legs. Balthasar lives and breathes, runs and rides, surfs and soars. Balthasar will see more and be more than you or I will ever see or be.
Balthasar is not afraid. Years of evolution into timidity snapped back in Balthasar. A body built for running away and a fearless mind could only lead to one thing. A rabbit that runs towards life, ready to take a bite.