When I look in the mirror, I can’t see what my mother sees. I can’t see what sister sees. They tell me they can see a fine young lady ready to take on the world, a lady with a passion and a temper. But that isn’t what I see. When I look into the mirror, all I see are those glassy lifeless eyes, eyes that don’t crinkle when I smile, because I know it is fake. I see a frail body, torn and broken by the years, hurt in ways no one will understand. I see the claw marks where I try to tear myself apart. I see the nervous twitching and I look at myself like I am a shadow, an outcast to society. Because that’s what I am. Beneath my demeanour, beneath my temper, I can’t smile properly anymore. I’m insecure. Every part of my body screams with every breath I take because I know, deep down, that I will never truly be what lies beyond my reflection. My perception. I can’t be a lady. I can’t. Because in my reflection and in me is the boy who doesn’t want to play this stupid game anymore. Because it’s killing me. When I look in the mirror, I see a warped and twisted version of who I want to be. I caress my cheek as a tear drips down because I know that my reflection and my perception are two very different things and they can’t meet as one.