‘He looks like you,' whispered my grandmother,  When the nurse handed me to my father.  A tear escaped his eyes in joy, When he learnt, I was a boy. He played with me every day, ‘Love you loads, son,' he would say. But things changed when I turned eight, My identity, my father began to hate.  For I loved dressing like a girl, Frocks and thick tresses with many a curl. He hurled abuses now and then, Wrath, my mother had to bear it yet again.  I trembled like a leaf and cried,  And, often, looked out for a place to hide. Am I not a part of you, my birth giver? Questions, I raised, clutching a frame of my father.  I wanted him to stand by my side, And truly wished I was his pride. But alas, I now wish in the womb I had died, At least I wouldn’t have faced these hateful eyes.     Penmancy gets a small share of every purchase you make through these links, and every little helps us continue bringing you the reads you love!