I was told I was a girl, so I believed it. All my life, I sat back and watched as my life happened to me. Decisions weren’t my own, my body wasn’t my own. My story belonged to the expectations of others. And as hard as I tried, I simply could not meet them.
Difference is ingrained in me. My skin itches as I feel the length of my hair tickle my face. I sag with the weight of female anatomy. I falter at the heaviness of male gazes dissecting me from the inside out, dressing me down like prey to a predator.
There is shame in my difference. I thought I understood it, but no. It’s deeper, more personal than my queerness. It’s not just who I love, it’s my performance, the theatrics of my existence. I’m tired of playing the understudy in the production of my life.
Now, I do no harm and take no shit. Now, I reach out my hand and another one reaches back.