Ive mastered the art of hiding my body from myself
Not seeing myself naked even in the shower
Only seeing my face in the mirror
And washing myself with a cold, impersonal, clinical touch.
Being surprised new chest hair grows back
After I last plucked it from between my *****
because I haven't looked down in so long.
I learned a long time ago by body wasn't for me
But was a flesh coffin for my soul to lie in
For this pretty boy to die in
And pretty down so the outside world would stop calling me she
And being he hasn't been cheap.
Im in the process, now, of learning that it's never enough
No matter what you give to cis-ciety
To abide by their standards
You will still be catcalled
Still asked on the first date about your surgery
Still referred to as Miss with your sideburns and mustache and low octive voice.
Theyre so hungry
their nonsense says feed me
Stop wearing make up
Dress uncomfortably
Try harder
Just to please me
But they will always find a reason to kick you out of the men's restroom.
And even if they dont
Even if they smile and call you sir
Even if they ask your **** size on the first date instead of what's between your legs
Even if they ignore you on the street because youre wearing pants instead of skirt.
You wonder what they would have said to you 12 months ago
When estrogen had softened your jawline
When mac tinted your lips
And you could still hit the high notes in that song on the radio.
Would they have called you sir then?
Do you feel any more safe
washing your hands in the men's room
Waiting to be caught?