they say
“get better first.”
as if being
trapped
in the wrong shape
isn’t part
of what’s killing me.

i try to explain
that this body
feels like
a punishment,
not a vessel.

but they want
perfect answers,
perfect mental health,
perfect coping skills—
before they’ll give me
permission
to be real.

i hate
what stares back at me.
i hate
that i need a prescription
to be seen.

& i’m scared.
i’m scared of the mirror.
i’m scared of testosterone.
i’m scared
i’ll still be
wrong
even after.

because what if
i never look
like him?
like me?

but even more—
i’m scared
i’ll never get the chance
to try.

& that’s what breaks me
over
and
over
again.