Sometimes I tell myself the loving things

I wish you would say to me.

I imagine the parent you would be

if you weren’t mentally ill

or were more compassionate

or had the Christ-like love for me

that you seem to have for others.

I picture you being happy for me

when I get to be my female self,

being proud of my strength and bravery

and beauty,

offering comfort when I feel rejected

or scared.

When I came out to you,

I naively dreamed it would be

a Hallmark moment,

that you would feel sad

for all my time struggling in the closet

alone,

that you would embrace me

and celebrate

getting to know the real me.

I thought you would be grateful

for my LGBT discussion group,

for all the lesbians who were family to me

when you couldn’t be,

who supported me when you didn’t know.

Now you do know but pretend not to.

You have had over a decade

to mourn the loss of your son

and accept me as your daughter.

You have spent that time in fruitless denial instead,

when we could have been growing closer.

Sometimes I hear in my head

the positive, affirming words

you would speak to me

if you truly knew my pain,

the things you would say

to console me

if I could tell you about my life.

I love this ghost version of you

just like you cling

to the mirage

of a male version of me.

I guess we both have our illusions.

I am not the male child you wanted.

You are not the mother I thought you were.