A poem about gender dysphoria

“Trapped in the wrong body”

That’s what they say how it feels.

No,

Not for me.

I know this is my body.

Because it is my body.

I lift my hand up in the air

And let the wind curl around my fingers

And twigs prick at my skin.

I let the rain form droplets and beads of water inherit my hair.

And flutteringly open my eyes.

This is my body.

However.

My soul have not processed that is true.

I am not trapped.

I am forced.

Into a box.

A circular box.

Perfect for wrapping gifts for the holidays

Wrapped in pretty linen and a shiny red bow on top.

A lot of people have been trying to force me into that box for a very long time.

It’s hard to force someone to be someone they are not unless they are happy to lie.

When I look at myself I do not feel ashamed.

I feel untrue.

That, that person on the other side is simply a reflection of an alternative version of myself that my consciousness takes hold of.

Like I could press my hand against the glass, my palm notices familiar feel of cold hardened sand appear as my fingertips create fingerprints as I hear a shower in the background and the mist covers the room.

And for just once

That reflection at the end of what seems like the universe, is not who what others see me as, but who I am.

As I slowly come out from behind the mirror as the glass becomes liquid sand as I grab my hand in a tight grip and yank me to the other side.

However.

My soul is not my body.

It’s simply energy that I cannot turn on or off and is dominant compared to my bones.

Oh, how I wish I could tell my younger self that people made up those two boxes.

That strangely enough have so much in common.

That is because the reality is not just boxes but an open void filled with love,beauty,pain and stars.

Which is why society creates their own ‘reality’.

Which have caused a lot of problems for people by telling them that they are the problem because they exist.

That “we chose our soul”

That we chose to Know the world isn’t just in black and white.

That we chose for our earth to stay silent as we watch it burn.

They say the land of the free,

Well,

I guess no land is truly free after all.

Life is not a masquerade.

No one can put on a fancy mask

And pretend to be a stranger and never showing their true face.

Life is the clouds.

Slowly drifting in the sky.

Something that you cannot touch.

Your fingers seep through it.

Pressure building up against the composition before letting all that pressure out

And let rain and thunder rage and sulk amongst the earth once they had enough.

To leave room for a ray of light to beam into someone’s bedroom for a perfect sunny day.

I shouldn’t have to scream to be heard in a quiet room.

I shouldn’t worry if me is too much to ask for.

I didn’t ask for anything.

I was born something

And told I was born another.

I can’t control

If when someone says my birth name,

And those syllables roll off their tongue

Like feathers that fall and shatter on the floor left over from a dying bird,

That I can’t help but feel invisible.

Like I slowly and slowly turn transparent.

That I am no longer there and they are talking about their idea of who they think I am.

Like those syllables don’t belong to me.

Like people are just seeing my skin and bones

But not

Me.

Or when I see myself as a child being stuffed inside that box again,

That I want to help them break free out of those handcrafted chains that others made,

And to get out of that small box to explore high snowy mountain tops and icy cold rivers and forests that smell of pine and plumed berries

Instead of dark misted cardboard

But just

Me.