Death Sentence

Being transgender is a rollercoaster ride. Some days are bearable, others are an awful fight for self-acceptance. This is a poem about one of the darker days.

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1. Death Sentence

Naked. Arms folded across my breasts.

The full-length mirror spits my reflection

Back into my contorted face.

It lies. Surely it lies. It must lie.

My soul throbs with hate, foaming

At the mouth. Howling to be freed from

The fleshy cage in which it resides.

My hips protrude in feminine form

And my thighs are littered with

Faint reminders of battles once fought.

My arms barely conceal the slabs of

Womanly meat that hang like

A death sentence upon my chest.

Weighing me down. Dragging me to depression.

I am a man. I am a man.

A man whose existence is tortured

By his body, his shell, his smothering skin.

I am transgender, and no matter how

Many times I bind my chest and

Loosely clothe to mask my moulded form

I will still undress and stare in sufferance

At the terrible tragedy of my being.

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