I close my eyes in a vain attempt to shield myself from the truth that is myself.
I look to the dim ceiling with sadness on my face. The weight of my skin is unnatural. I steel my jaw, I refuse to cry.
I'll never be like my dad, for I'll forever be stuck in the shackles of femininity. The shower water turns cold as it hits my skin.
Don't look down. I turn off the water, slipping out of my chamber of horrors my mum calls a shower.
Don't look down. I wrap myself up in a towel, thankful for my mirror fogging up. I fold myself as small as I can and sit on the mat. I dry off in a minute, and slip on my boxers and compression top, and look at myself in the mirror.
A stranger stares back.
I mean, don't get me wrong, she's beautiful, but she's not me.
I pull on my loose shirt, the one that makes me feel like I'm myself, and step outside.
