One huge sign I was repressing being trans, was having an urge for years & years to use cute little emoticons like
“^-^ c: 👉🏻👈🏻”
but never could, & never questioned why I had so much shame around it.
Wishing so incredibly bad I could express myself in a more cutesy way, more gentle, more delicate.
“^-^ c: 👉🏻👈🏻”
but never could, & never questioned why I had so much shame around it.
Wishing so incredibly bad I could express myself in a more cutesy way, more gentle, more delicate.
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Never occurred to me that cis guys don’t just have a constant, overwhelming urge to be held to anything other than the standards of being a “man,” whatever that terribly unfamiliar word meant.
scratching, begging, pleading,
for the freedom of catching just ONE full, solid breath.
just one.
Poor girl.
Poor, poor girl.
walking through a life that was never hers to walk in.
such a crushing weight.
“Watch your little feminine tendencies,
wouldn’t want them to think you’re gay or something,
even though you’re exclusively attracted to women.”
“Why do I feel so incapable of having a genuine, authentic presence in the world?”
Fighting for her life for years,
trying to conform to the mold of a guy,
who never existed in the first place.
There never was a ‘him.’
His shoes will never be filled, though I tried for years.
Giving presence and representation to the boy who never was.
Letting my family laugh at my jokes, through his mouth.
or grief.
Maybe he’s somewhere in another life,
in a body he doesn’t find familiar.
I hope he’s not still drowning,
struggling to fill my shoes.
I hope he’s at peace,
living a beautiful life,
as the man I never could.
b. REALLLLLL