When I was younger, there was a clear vision,
In my mind, of who I wanted to be.
She was tall, strong, and the smartest in the room.
She was creative, bold, kind, and funny.
She was an artist, a dreamer, a mom, a friend.
She was everything, manifest.
And I'll never be her.
Instead I am him.
He, pursuing a PHD, and a stable income,
Instead of a gallery feature, and time to spare.
I follow the roadmap I drew in crayon at 7,
Discerning between colors long worn and smudged,
Trying to fit into that same outline I once knew.
Clawing at continuity, discipline, earnestness.
Over the years, input from peers changed my life.
Rather than smartest, I aim to be best liked.
My goals moved away from art and poetry,
Instead became love, companionship, and trust.
Every word of praise from your mouth molds me,
Positive feedback another cuff on my wrist.
Please, I beg, just don't avert your gaze.
Gone are the days of knowing what I wanted,
Anything past the notion of a family and love.
I can't even decide if I want to be a man at all.
Do I still want bigger muscles and coarser skin,
If it means losing the sound of you saying to me,
'You're so soft, so easy to rub my hands along,"
Or'd I rather continue this feminine masquerade?
The biological hunger for intimacy is alluring to me.
I want sex and to be loved the way other men do.
My body reacts to your touch as it would if I wasn't born wrong, if I were just more like you.
But I'm nothing like you.
You lack this desire for intimacy, almost completely.
Would a drug enhancing mine break us apart?
Will I ever be willing to take that chance?
Can I grow more hair and still be your pretty boy?
Would my deeper voice still lull you to sleep,
During harsh nights when you call out to me?
If I looked more like me, and less like her,
Would you still be able to look me in the eye?
Me, the killer of the girl I was supposed to be.
Would you mourn her in front of me?
If I inject myself with liquid confidence,
If my mannerisms, my body, my face all change,
Will I still be me? Can I be better? Will it get worse?
Is it possible you'd be okay finding out with me?
Like the rest, will the idea of change ward you off?
If I break down and reconstruct myself,
Will you figure out which parts you always hated?
Can you even begin to imagine the choice?
Does it compute, the weight on both ends?
This button might make you love your own skin,
But you might lose everything in the process.
If you never press it, you'll never know.
If you do, you'll never be able to go back.
Time goes on, and you do too, happy or not.
But what would that loss even mean?
Can you even lose when you start with so little?
Is a loss still a loss if you knew it was coming?
The world spins around with or without you,
So can't you decide before your hourglass runs dry?
Conviction means assuming responsibility,
And the only thing worse than feeling that loss is knowing that it was your fault.
