You want me to write about the trans experience

I think you would like a metaphor.
Probably a sad Not-Girl caterpillar heaving his piteous way through elementary school diet pop
Tears, a trail of glitter glue behind him. Emerges, a scar-laced butterfly:
Something nice like that.
But I am rotten, rotten to my hot-flamingo core:
The bite out of a split Pink Lady on the ground fermented petrichor-wet
And I am Saturn, devourer of Gods;
and of Shopkins Series TwoTell me, would you shower an arsonist with awards?
I kept her name and burned the rest, stomped my Barbie
Heel in the flames, twisted it: kindled the fire with legal documents and gender-revealing
Pink-Blue cake.
What I mean is:
Surprise! My cousin wasn't the only grandson after all:
You scream Mazel Tov! with hoarse asbestos-lined lungs
And watch me scramble over bits of broken glass:
And I know you’re scared
To look into my cigarette burn eyes and dangle that key in my face:
I swear, I won’t bite:
(I have been Smartie-bracelet-shackled for your safety.
The candy is half chewed off.
I am hungry.)
Don’t back away when you see my mouth foaming bubblegum toothpaste.
Sometimes I think
I’m a bad son.
I spit I
SNAP! My lip-gloss-smeared jaws at the hand that feeds me.
“If they’re going to reward you for suffering, then take it. Know your audience.”
My mother is smarter than I am.
She thinks you would like a metaphor.