She is the zebra
with stripes so fair
she is assumed to be a gazelle
or antelope.
She is the zebra
who doesn't understand
why such a term is
politically incorrect.

Her short hairs are a bother;
a matted, knotted, unruly mess
that she complains about
to others if not herself.
But she is the zebra,
and the zebra cannot manage.

She offers herself willingly
to the lions and tigers,
wanting to gain their attention
but becomes distant and quiet
when they look her way.
They ignore her
as they lap up their fill.
She is the zebra,
and the zebra is withdrawn.

She feels guilty
about her persona
and what is presented,
the lack of acknowledgement
to all her parts.
But she is the zebra,
and the zebra is confused.

She finds herself constantly explaining.
"I am this," she states,
"my mother is one, my father the other.
I am the zebra,
counting my stripes
and wondering if I'll ever know."

She is the lady
who wants to paint her body
in colors of ebony and ivory
to remove all doubt of her nature
in her mind
as well as the minds of others.
She is the lady
who barely whispers her existence
with half smiles
and soft jittering laughter.

She is the lady,
she is the zebra.
She is the lady,
she is the zebra.
She is...