On the Grave of My Privilege

I am trans.
I am Filipino.
I am queer.
I am albino.
I am slash
in man / woman.

The lowest rung. Abject of abjects.

Yet you see me, as,

I'm like a privilege machine made of broken parts
held together by the string of perception.

Take away a part and the spring will unfurl, the
edifice unravel.


Had I been born not white, not mutant
You would see me as mistake,
a half-man freak
because you could tell my face
is too man for the Oriental doll
picture in your mind
when you examine my race.

How f'd, for life to be better as an ill-visioned albino
then a fully abled visible racial minor key.

Had I been born not trans or slash, I would be
a half-baked potato
of a feminine man who loves men
queer of queers and, damning of damnings:

Had I been born not queer I would
to you be weird
because I would want women as
a woman when
I could be a man with women and
why take off your penis for that?

And if I weren't Filipino
then my body would,
chances are,
not be
for white.

And so, oh panel of judges
get out your 10's for
I get the perfect score,
technical merit plus artistic expression
in my quintiple somersault of
for an unnative self
and you hand me the medal of privilege I
wear around my neck,
like a tombstone staked
into my soil.