The Birds

Dysphoria

Sometimes, I forget I have a body.
This vessel carries me from place to place,
but it barely exists. The hands that type
this don't belong to me. When I look in
the mirror, I am surprised to see any-
-thing there. I don't recognize myself, and
I can barely convince myself that it's
me that I see. I lift a hand to my
face, and I can feel the fingertips brush
my cheekbones, and I can see my reflec-
-tion, but we are not the same person. It
is not me. These are not, can't be, my hands.

Other times, I cannot forget this body.
I'm overly conscious of everything.
My hips are too wide, and I sway when I
walk. My shoulders aren't broad enough. I
don't look like a man, not with this body.
I'm not tall. I have to look up to make
eye contact. I want to cry because I'm
not a boy. Boys are tall. I need a hair-
-cut. My hair is too long. Boys have short hair.
I can feel my chest bounce as I walk. I
cross my arms tight until it hurts and I
can't press anymore. I can feel myself
against my underwear. My lungs won't fill.
My stomach clenches. I feel like throwing
up. I wish there was something else there or
maybe nothing at all. My thin wrists are
typing. I try to think of a guy this
small. I can't. I try to forget myself.
I can't. My wrists are too small. These wrists are
not mine, not me. These are not, can't be, mine.