Memories,
memories of the boxes of masculinity I crammed myself into,
for you,
they are memories,
memories which occupy not only my closet,
but also the lining of my heart,
if you had the faintest idea you’d understand,
those memories burn like embers,
she still doesn’t understand,
memory boxes which hold photos of me,
but are not me,
photos of a girl before testosterone occupied and took control of her body,
a girl before male hormones swam deep into her genetic code,
stripping away what was, a girl,
she still doesn’t understand,
those memories like knives,
cut deep into my skin.  
I can now say blood is a lot thicker than water,
but
that does not mean the scars on my body tell the happy tale of a family unit, they do not recite togetherness
they do not dance to the rhythm of unity
Instead
Instead these scars loosely translate to ‘please mom, help’,
she still doesn’t understand
I cut my chest open for you and bare myself to you
like an open cavity in hope that you’ll understand
that body was a home but I was merely a guest
don’t you get it?