I observe.

In the mirror, 

a body is

yearning to break free,

screaming,

BEGGING to leave.

I look.

In the mirror,

hating every curve I see,

and pull my binder 

over my head.

I struggle to unfurl it.

When I finish,

the torso of 

this body

is flat.

No parasites today.

I get ready

to run errands.

I take public transit

as usual.

I see the dusty blue sky,

the overwhelming setting sun,

and two masculine figures.

Everything

about them is

what I want to be.

Both of them

are beautiful.

Seeing myself in the

train door’s window,

I realize

I will never 

be seen as they are–

not like this.

I am in shackles.

I am in tears.

I don’t remember 

the last time I cried

but I know 

I’ll remember this moment.

And I do.

I recognize.

The body in the mirror.

It is a creature. 

It is a curse.

It is not mine.

It has two bags of flesh

on its chest.

I wish they were sewn 

on so I could pull them 

off.

I wish I could give them away.

I do not want them.

I do not want them.

I DO NOT WANT THEM.

I DO NOT WANT THEM.

I̷̲̾̈̀̓̈́̚͜ ̴̢̡̛̝̐̏́̿͝D̷̗̯͈̀͛̈́̀̀͑̐Ö̷̡̲̱̰̬͚̪͕́̌͌̎͒̈́̚ ̸̨̻̩̦̺̼͓̂̔̐͊̍̓Ṅ̷̹̞͚͍̰̮Ȏ̸̮͈̀̒͜T̷̤͉̘̝͇̦̗̲̓̄̐̄̚ ̶͓̥̹͈̯̪̙̎̾̏͊̾́͠W̶͇̉Ầ̶̢̮̣̅ͅN̷̫̫͈̜͛̄̀̓̀̔̋̎͜ͅT̸͎̺͕̻̝́̿́ ̷̬̣̯͗̾̔͜T̶͍̃̀̇̾̈́̕̕ͅH̵̢͚̱̳̃̉̽̔̕E̵̳͈̹̝̓͜ͅM̸̟̝͙̗̻͈̀̃̀̇.̶͇͓̬̜̦̆̀̉͌̒̑

I exist.

As someone’s sick voodoo doll. 

I am made of a mess 

of various fabric scraps. 

None of them

are blue.

Most

are a series of pinks.

I am made of a mess

of expectations.

One haircut

doesn’t change anything.

I wait.

For top surgery,

for testosterone,

for my eighteenth birthday.

I will “mutilate”

this body

until it is mine.

I continually reject 

my “biology.”

I know.

That I will feel better

when this canvas creation

is removed.

I know

that I will be relieved

when this costume made of skin

is torn off.

“I won’t get sick,”

I tell my dad as he

shares his worries. 

I am certain.

The healing process

will let my snow-white wings

free.

I open.

The door with 

my rainbow key.

“Hi, dad,”  

I say.

I hear five letters

that are not mine.

Not   

         a

              single

                          one.

I can’t

make out a response.

I leave

my binder on

until he has left.

His son,

his child

is a stranger.

One he doesn’t

want to explain.

This body 

is his “daughter.”