I trace my face in the mirror,
fingertips skimming the surface,
as if I could wipe away what doesn’t belong.
They say I should wait, “Too young.”
That time will carve the truth into my skin.
That the shape of me isn’t mine to decide.
But how long must a voice echo
before it is heard?
How many birthdays can a heart stretch,
pulled tight between two names,
before it frays?
I am told my certainty is a phase,
but I have carried it
since before I had words.
I hold it now,
a heartbeat wrapped in trembling hands,
asking, waiting,
when will I be old enough
to be myself?
If not now,
then when?
And if not now,
will I still be here
to see then?
Apr 7
Apr 7, 2026 at 3:51 AM UTC
I trace my face in the mirror,
fingertips skimming the surface,
as if I could wipe away what doesn’t belong.
They say I should wait, “Too young.”
That time will carve the truth into my skin.
That the shape of me isn’t mine to decide.
But how long must a voice echo
before it is heard?
How many birthdays can a heart stretch,
pulled tight between two names,
before it frays?
I am told my certainty is a phase,
but I have carried it
since before I had words.
I hold it now,
a heartbeat wrapped in trembling hands,
asking, waiting,
when will I be old enough
to be myself?
If not now,
then when?
And if not now,
will I still be here
to see then?
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