But what is privilege

Cw: trans & homophobic slur, death

watch this, you said, clutching it to your chest, watch this:
a boy sits by the riverside/ and molds his heart into an origami
of shapeless things // his tears/ the wine that oils/
his mashed cravings/flowers that die at the break of dawn
/& what is worse/ to want the things you want so badly/like listening
/to your lungs cry/ for air in a sealed jar/you can’t reach for
the lid you can’t reach/because there are eyes and eyes and eyes/ like floating ribbons / like a
fucking graffitied wall/watching /& mouths/minute/mute/mad
// wide /flirtatious/ daring/unbearable/thorns/ sapping/the
warmth/ off your body’s song/till the garden of your heart becomes/
a waste land/skyrocketing a soundless hum of grief/from your throat/
it was sunday/the day the lord died/i asked my
smiling mother /if she knew what the body sings in the dark/
what do you mean?/ she said/standing before a mirror/
adjusting the gele to sit on her head/please
don’t come and spoil my easter for me// i’m dying,
was what i said/ this is not my body/ i am a she/ not he.
i know it/ many centuries ago/ in a past life/this soul has lived
before/but in a different home/her smile vapourised/
dread and scorn solidified on her face //next day she erected a
cathedral in my room/& planted a huge crucifix on the wall/ above my
bed/ to ward off the demon of homosexuality /see i wish i could play
a better video for you/ than the one in my head/ but the only thing
you’ll get in this city/ is a mob/& a flame/eating the bodies of boys
contorted in geometries of love & grief & silence/ like penance/
belching them as smoke/ into God’s face/ memorial./it isn’t you that i mourn/
it is time/of those things we would have become/
the birds in my chest sing/ the elegy of shruken hearts/the clash of
hands/drumming a burning river /forgive me if i bore you to
death with my crazy ramblings/there’s a dog barking
softly at the grave of my head/ i don’t know what it says/but i know
what it sees: /the faces/of boys powdered with darkeness/
their lips trying to repair the broken harp in their eyes/
these aren’t some fucking lines you pick from/ jazzy’s rap song
and scream the roof down/ oh fucking christ/christ isn’t the one
burning here/it’s me/it’s the choir of voices in my head/singing an opera of
longing/when i sleep/what i am saying is/i wear my sequine gown
and sashay into a room full of flowers/ in a room/ i swear/
i wish i could cook this poem into something/ something you
can swallow/ without feeling the ache/in your throat/ to shove this
picture/ of my becoming/ the things/my mother dreads/ in the world’s
face/to become a bird / & sway with reckless abandon/
daring the wind to lift a hand / i fucking hate this regimen of plucking eggs
from the sky/ in my dream/ and never see them hatch into wings /
have you seen the drowning ship in my eyes?/ a girl says, inching
towards me in a bar/ a poem is just privilege/ she adds,
sipping her drink/just privilege/it is the only way you conceal
the pain in pages mildewed by the sun/ in bodies of lovers you can
only caress in a land of shadows /but what is privilege/
when it only sings behind a mask? i ask/ watch this, she says/watch this/