I’m a Trans Woman, and You Will See Me

A battle beneath the skin, a symphony of becoming, and a flame that refuses to go out

Photo by on

There is a battle raging deep in my skin. A war I did not enlist for. A war fought with weapons I cannot see but feel. It begins the moment my eyes open to the world. When the morning light pricks the crack in my being and reminds me that war never pauses. Not for sleep. Not for peace. Not for anything.

Dysphoria is not a visitor. It is a tenant. Living rent-free. It is a ghost that drags its nails along the walls of my being, leaving me hollow but echoing with its presence.

I stand in front of the mirror—a slab of polished betrayal. It is supposed to reflect. It just distorts. I’ve become a riddle to myself. A grotesque magic trick where the audience gasps. Not in awe, but in discomfort.

My body is a prison. No. Not a prison. Prisons have structure. Rules. They have bars and walls. This is a void. An endless and unyielding void. Stretching in every direction with no edges to hold onto.

I touch my chest, face, and hips as though trying to sculpt myself from the clay that feels like concrete in my hands. The concrete never moves. I can’t shape it. It mocks me with its permanence.