Myself, But Real


Something didn’t feel right.
Writing those words,
speaking those sentences,
housing those hours:
it never felt good enough.
With all of my memories recounted by others,
I was a product of femininity and clumsiness.
My movements were motorized,
powered through a brain that lusted after broken parts.
My whole being was shattered,
lost somewhere along the way of growing up.
I never wanted to grow up this fast.
Yet there I was,
pieces missing and all,
standing in the rain in hopes that my heart would rust.
And to think I wished for something I could never have:
myself,
but real.

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