I feel sick. I want to go home.

My body isn't mine. It's of a fragile self-hating girl.

I can't be her. I am in my own.

My body needs to be mine, and three years is often a long wait.

To be seen, to be heard.

To be recongised as myself.

To be able to observe my own company.

It's not fair. I want to go home.

It's not safe here. I want to go home.

I'm not myself here. I want to go home.

Where is home?

Is it the place whom I am authentic? Or is it merely where I find myself?

Where ever it is,

it's not here.