ribs

i stand in front of the mirror and it is telling me a deafening story i begged it not to speak of

something vile looks back at me, limbs mangled and twisted, whispering sorrows into my ear

i was meant to look like something else.

i see those boys in passing— effortless, sunlight on their shoulders, their bodies moving like they were always meant to be there

and something in me folds inward.

envy, but not fully. something quieter. sharp.

a grief with no true loss to accompany it

i trace their outlines in my mind and wonder how it would feel to exist without translation, to wake up and not have to explain why breathing feels misfitted.

in my mind i borrow their clothes sometimes— threads of hope stitched into cotton

but the mirror reshapes them,

softens, curves, rewrites as if to say:

not for you!

i hate its words. the ones that insist i will always be interpreted, always explaining myself.

any pronoun is fine. any pronoun is fine.

you can't misgender me! i promise.

but somewhere beneath that noise, quiet as a pulse, there’s something stubborn and deep 

it has been with me since before i was born

and He will die with me too.