Cooking therapy – a poem

Chop some garlic that maked you smell,

onions that make you cry.

The cookingtherapy is going swell.

I am in the wrong body and wonna die.

My parents don’t respect my choice.

I am middle aged, I have a voice.

I don’t need their permission

for my transition.

It’s my life,

knife of regret cuts the heart,

clock is ticking, I need to start.

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