I sit here, at my desk, a mess, and think about how my life would be different. A phrase I hear often is ‘born in the wrong body’ But I don’t feel that. The ideal that, I was born in the right one, which just happened to be the wrong one. A gun trained on me, asking me to decide, I put my fear aside, I fantasise my future life, am I trans enough to pass, my glass is half full but I only hear their lies, their distant cries that it would be easier to just be female. A phrase not heard often, I ponder this, as I wander through my life, a knife balanced on the edge of a table, a fable that we are all free to choose. This is news to me as I palm my bruises and cuts, my guts are out to bear, a hair out of place, a face too clean, too lean to be male. A vale in my future, or a tie, I tie this lie to my third eye, wishing that I could only be seen as I feel, I steal a glance in a mirror, I can see clearer and clearer that it is not me staring back, I lack the confidence to admit, I would benefit from some help.
An oddity, an ellipsis in the middle of a sentence, a question mark hitting an exclamation, a shout, a scream to the roof tops that ‘I am me’ I am free to see myself over an imagined line that divides us like tracks humming from an oncoming train. I refrain from labels but cradle mine like a baby, afraid that someone will take it away. Okay with the notion of absolute certainty in the face of opposition, a rhyme of ‘are you sure’ ‘yes’. With my bulletproof vest, my armour, we are passed from place to place. A race to see who asks the same questions first. Cursed with an enemy, a friend, by my side at all times. It mimes my every action, except it is different, they can see her. I murmur, it shouts, they don’t see me. Am I as free as I thought or is it all an illusion, confusion, battling my mind I find myself spinning, not winning, fighting to be the one seen. I am less keen everyday to try, knowing full there is nothing I can do. The morning dew has more influence than I. I shy away, retreat, cheat, my defeat has become more visible. I am no longer miserable, I lack that complex emotion, the commotion inside my brain is split, I quit at every sentence. They become shorter as I divide my life inside my head. I dread each moment, each component crushing my thoughts. I finish with a simple thought, I see the cliché, but hey I know I’m free to be me. She’s done, I turn, run, dropping the smoking gun.