Dear my dysphoria,
You may seem invisible to the rest of the world, but I see you.
You’re always there in the corner of my mind.
On good days, you stick to yourself, just staring me down.
But usually, you’re breathing down my neck,
Cupping my breasts in your cold hands, sucking the life from my lips.
Usually you’re gripping my waist, feeling the curve of my hips,
Taunting me about each one of my weaknesses and insecurities.
Every morning, you stare me down as I dress in the bathroom.
A reflection of monstrosity, with all the wrong body parts enhanced in my vision.
You're there in every person on the street, looking at me with knowledge of femininity.
I guess the bags under my eyes and the wraps around my chest aren’t enough to hide it away.
I see you in every cent I make, knowing I have to spend it all on you.
Storing it away to get rid of you, but will you ever truly leave?
After every shot, after every incision, will you still be glued to my thoughts?
Maybe you’re not the parasite I made you out to be.
Maybe you’re just a part of me.