I never knew
that I would have to cut out
parts of my life to be free
the operation was long in anticipation
these ******* of mine were never mine
a literal weight off of my chest
is top surgery
now my life begins
and I can be me

A disappointment
That's all that I am
Born to defy
They say I'm not human
I am more
Tell me that I'm not
***** I built myself up
From the bottom to the top
I fought for who I am
I'm not say'n I'm a saint
Not say'n that I am perfect
Or that I haven't got complaints
Got plenty o' em
I've done things that I regret
My parents are ashamed of me
Can't bare what they beget
They may never call me son
Or see me for who I am
All they wanted was a little girl
Not a transgender man.

Baby girl,

The first time I feel your tiny body in my hand, I realize my heart has been torn out of my chest. It’s been given arms and legs and a small, beautiful face, and now I have to watch it run around outside of me and guide it so I don’t lose it.

I know I will protect you because you are the Holy Grail men spend their entire lives searching for.

You are everything. No one will love you more than I do. Nothing will come between us.

You will grow up in an unkind world, a world that shouts and spews oceans of hatred. They will tell you that you’re worth less than the boys you’ll want to date.

But you will grow strong and proud, fearless of those oppressive ideals because you know better.

And when you come to me and tell me you love girls, too, with the burning passion of a million fire ants, I won’t let you see how much this worries me.

Because as hard as life was for you as a girl, my baby, it will be even more difficult when people spill oil and acid into the bay where you grew up. And all of the positivity you learned will sink under their screams of “****” and “******” and “*****”.

I will be here, though, to love you and show you that kindness is the sword in the stone that you need to rule your kingdom. You will be the mightiest queen we’ve ever seen because you know how hard life is, and you’ll teach your children and their children the respect and passion they need to make this stagnant bog flow.

But

But when you tell me that you are not my daughter at all,
that you’ll never be my baby girl,
because I taught you to find Excalibur,
and you realized you were King Arthur,
what am I supposed to do?
Am I supposed to love and support you unconditionally because you are still my child?
Everything I know says that this is wrong, every cell in my body says you are my daughter and changing your life like this is wrong and it will be so hard for you to be this boy you want to become.

How can I let you blossom into your own person when you’re not safe stepping beyond the persona I made for you?

I'm sorry you never got to be a mother,
kids running around you being a bother.
I’m sorry you never got to grow up and get married,
to a man who would cherish you till you were buried.
I’m sorry you lost all your friends,
Maybe someday they will make amends.
I’m sorry you lived hating your body,
mind going crazy, and eyes red and ******.
I’m sorry for all the things you could have been,
cut short by me at just thirteen.

But I’m not sorry for living,
I had to get free screaming and kicking.
I’m not sorry for letting your soul go,
like a little kid with his dead goldfish in the toilet flow.
I’m not sorry for ripping the facade of you off,
I’m glad our personalities aren’t too far-off.
I’m not sorry for being true to myself,
to that miserable girl, a sweet farewell.
Though no one knows you truly died,
the grief of you lies within me classified.

forty-eight hours is a long time to wear a binder,
and my ribs are screaming for mercy,
for a break from the compression and lack of mobility.
but it's not that easy.

sometimes i'd rather face the pain,
than face the fact that i am female.
these weights on my chest,
drag me to the ground.
i break down.

i feel locked in my body,
and all i want to do is break free.
nobody should feel the need to shower in the dark,
because the reality of their body is too much for them.
it shouldn't be this way

and i know i shouldn't compare myself to people,
but i cannot stop thinking,
'what if i were cis'.
i think of how much easier everything would be.
i wouldn't have to worry over how long i've been wearing my binder,
or if i pass,

i wouldn't have to worry about turning eighteen,
knowing i will be homeless.
but instead, my mother would celebrate her baby,
becoming a "legal adult."

forty-eight hours wouldn't be a worrying statement,
just another frame of time,
it wouldn't reflect on my self-care routines,
or lack thereof

it'd just be forty-eight hours.