When the girl looked in the mirror she always wanted to cry.

Her hair was too short, her jaw too square, her chin bristled and rough. Her body was flat and angular and the weight between her legs made her want to scramble out of her skin.

This was not her body, not who she was meant to be. This was a mistake; she was a mistake. God, she was going to throw up.

She just wished someone would listen to her, prove that she was not alone.

But,

Her father said,

“A girl? You shut your mouth before I shut it for you, I didn’t raise no faggot.”

Her mother said,

“Dear, please don’t talk nonsense, of course you’re a boy. I gave birth to you, so I think I would know what gender you are.”

Her sister said,

“What, like a tranny? Don’t even joke about stuff like that, it’s disgusting.”

And she was alone. Trapped in this ill-fitting skin, different and unnatural and wrong.

She wondered sometimes, what it would have been like to have been born “Lydia” instead of “Lucas”. To have long, thick hair and beautiful curled lashes. To have full lips and plucked brows and smooth cheeks. To have soft curves and and a sweet, high voice. To be able to wear cute little skirts and towering heels and flattering red lipstick.

When the girl looked in the mirror she always wanted to cry.