These are the days that I am a clay figure,
Molded by clumsy hands, shaped
With curves where there should be flat
Planes where I exist to create a mask, a
Persona of who I am and who I want to be.

These are the days when I want to avoid
My reflection yet check it to make sure it
Matches what I want to see and
It never does.

These are the days that my reflection
Never matches what I want to see where
My insides twist in disgust and I want to
Crawl inside myself and hide from the
World.

These are the days that my reflection
Never matches what I want to see where
My insides twist in disgust and I want to
Crawl inside myself and hide from the
World.

These are the days when I wake up
And want to have layers upon layers because
The bulk can help make my body a secret.

These are the days where my body is a 
Secret that I never want to reveal when
My steps are unsure and my face is set to
Boy-mode.

These are the days that I watch guys and
Imitate them,
Stealing their walks hoping
I’ll steal their identities so I don’t have to

These are the days that my heart fissures
When I am called “her”, when a pronoun
Becomes an insult and

These are the days that I wish my mind
Wasn’t so deadset against my happiness
That I could just feel “girl” that I could
Just pretend it away.

But these
Are the days that I fight hardest to be who I
Am and fight to educate others and
Imagine a day where I won’t be misgendered
Or gendered at all.