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the excruciating pain of being in a body that is wrong for you. the burden of a chest that shouldn’t be there. flesh like little flames gouging me harder when i wear underwear that is too tight. or underwear that is not cotton. so there is enough air to breathe. because you don’t want to accentuate the wrong genitalia. mourning a flaccid ghost in between my thighs. every shower is a mistake. there is a terror with nudity. girls glisten in the ways i wish i could. their flaxen hair comfortably grazing their neck. another meal would go to my breast. another pound would go to my ass. you throw your food up. the only people who you can share secrets with are those afflicted by the same virus. some days you play make believe to feel loved. the transaction for love is putting on a skirt. on a good day maybe i can appreciate that there is a patience in learning how to love me. maybe you can be held by those who learn what it means to really love you. but before there is love there is paranoia. that maybe to everyone i am just a girl who wants a dick. the feeling of being a failed girl. the feeling of being a failed boy. you’re still seen as the failed girl anyway. so why does it matter. you see the same fucking thing in the mirror as everyone else does.