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This skin isn't mine.
Well, it's mine, but I firmly believe it wasn't meant to be. There are days where I am comfortable with how I look, and there are days where I look at some of my peers and wonder "what was I supposed to look like?"
Men make me nervous, and I don't know why. It could be dysphoria, but I don't like being around men. Cis-men, specifically. Nothing scares me more than a person who doesn't know the struggles of identity. Someone who doesn't have to correct people every time they are called "her" or "he" because everyone gets it right the first time. Someone who doesn't have to worry about another name, and telling people that they want to be called this instead. I fear the people who know what they are, and always have. I fear the people who make our choices for us, without knowing that it will tear us down and burn us to ashes.
I fear the people who I have to correct. My voice shakes, and my knees feel weak. I try to explain, but my voice is a whisper they choose not to hear. Mistakes are made so often I laugh when they claim it was an accident.
This skin isn't mine.
I don't pass- this skin isn't mine, and it makes it known every day. Every day I'm reminded of what I am, and it feels like fire underneath this skin, yearning for an escape into a body that is mine.
I look for validation in everything, I hang onto every word you say with a noose, and yet you don't even notice. Everything you say is another burn into my flesh, into my memory. Even your words that were blessed with honey and sugar, soft as cotton and bright as summer days.
This skin isn't mine. But I will do all I can until I feel right again.
