Born a daughter, always a daughter.

Or at least, that’s what my parents say,

not knowing the full effect of their words.

They cut into you

like a knife,

fragmenting you,

bound to leave an everlasting scar,

a wound that remains fresh until you forget,

yet it’ll always be carried with you.

Truth is,

I cannot pretend anymore.

I can’t pretend that wearing dresses to events

doesn’t make me feel like a poser.

A fraud.

Not me.

I can’t pretend that I love having

long hair draping past my shoulders,

like I love being caked up in makeup.

Like I love pretending. 

So what,

if I’d rather wear a suit to events?

So what,

if I cut my hair above my shoulders?

It’s me.

I will not change

who I am.