I do not own a gun

My two older sisters had matching dolls.

I had cars and trucks,

a Roy Rogers’ holster with a silver cap gun.

I used to hide in their closet

and played with their dolls when no one was around.

My mother was a girl scout leader;

I know all the songs.

I belonged to the boy scouts;

learned all the macho ways to be a man.

I grew up with a speech impediment,

stuttered and talked to myself

in angry Tourrette’s outbursts that were never kind.

When I stood in front of class to read,

I’d get stuck on a word

and the room would howl with laughter.

Five years of speech therapy and a father

who said boys don’t cry, taught me to survive.

My first male teacher was in sixth grade.

He did not know what to do with me,

put my desk in the hall, gave me my books;

I learned on my own where no one laughed.

In junior high, my father told all my teachers

I had a smart mouth and to knock me down

if they were close and some did.

I thought something was wrong with me

and fought my way through school.

I still argue with myself when no one is around

and my voice is still not kind.

I have a loving family,

but struggle with how to love them back.

I often wish this narrative in my head would stop,

but it never does.

I’m okay with death, but I am not suicidal.

I read the news of all these angry men with guns,

have flashes of understanding

but then complete disgust.

I do not own a gun and never will.

5-5-23