You treat me so sweetly, though I’ve yet to share my secret. Do you already know? I don’t aim to hide what is true, but I wonder…if you trust me to be who I am.
We talk, and my voice drops under the pressure of laughter. Do you hear the shadow of the person I was once expected to be? Those trained, sometimes strained upper octave vibrations that I use so well to confirm my honest-to-goodness soul dispel your doubts that I belong among the bras and emphatic gabbing.
Can I ever truly belong? Sitting in the comfort of your room, too nervous to even take a glance around, I focus on engaging you. Desperately convincing you that these visual cues you see are, in fact, feminine. Never quite strong. Never too weak.
Posing in the mirror, naked, my body has yet to adhere to what my brain has deemed correct. That torso, wider than it should be. A medically-induced puberty padded with uncertainty, hope, and disappointment. Those abs, a sign of my avid dedication to maintain good form – possibly self-sabotage. My dysphoria reminding me of my broad, enigmatic features – a beauty who dreams of reaffirmation by someone not their reflection.
I’m just a girl trying to be. Living with a past that denies me, and I them. Proving to your eyes, that my body is not a lie.
I am real.