They call a trap
and I guess I am,
trapped in this body
that isn’t really mine.
I love the fingers,
the toes, the head,
but parts feel wrong
they don’t belong
and I wish to cut, slash
remove everything
until I am real, whole.
I have a box of forbidden items,
ones I wear to become whole.
The weight of fake breasts
steadies my breathing,
the flowing flow of light fabric
lifts my mouth into a smile.
Make-up softens my skin
and a wig highlights my personality.
I cannot change my voice
but extravagant necklaces mask
my masculine apple.
People see me, the real me,
are pleasant and friendly
until they hear me talk
and call me a trap.
I don’t want to be a trap,
I just want to be myself.
Scribbled Thoughts 