girl..boy

when who you are is seen as a costume

Tape wrapped tight around your chest—
right over your shirt,
like a cheap disguise.

You came to celebrate the album—
but it felt like my experience
was boiled down to a dollar store costume.
Something disposable,
a costume you wear for an hour
to get drunk,
then throw away
when you walk out the door.

I wish I could pack up
this knot of discomfort—
the way dysphoria sneaks in,
sparks a fire beneath my skin.
I wish I could have it be something separate,
something I could fold up and set aside
like an old jacket.

But it sticks,
heavy and unwelcome,
a shadow I can’t shake—
no matter how much I want to.

I want to live
without this weight,
to breathe in my own skin—
but instead, it feels like a mockery
of the struggle I carry,
a fight I’m still trying to understand,
without a clear way forward.

The worst part that night was running into someone—
someone I thought was a new friend,
someone who seemed kind,
someone I believed I could turn to
when dysphoria hit hard,
because they’d been there before.

They had figured out some of it—
how to make sense of the fire that flares up without warning.
I reached out, hoping for understanding,
because they had been open about their top surgery.
But all I got was silence.

Seeing them again,
I greeted first—
because why would I pretend they were a ghost?
Why ignore someone who mattered?

I hadn’t done anything wrong.

But the way they looked at me—
while I was dressed more femme—
felt like their eyes were weighing me down,
like they thought I was faking it.

Why would I fake a label
that only makes things harder for me?

One that sparks conversation, even in casual spaces—
one that shifts how people see me—
one that can make me suddenly uneasy
in my own skin.

My expression shifts and moves,
while theirs stays frozen, stagnant.

Does that make me less valid?

I don’t think so.

I just hate the policing—
the way we hold each other’s identities hostage
with expectations and silence.

why can’t i just be?