He was born Sophia.
But it doesnt fit him, and that name is as dead as the flowers I have pressed in my journal.
Always there, a reminder, what I have to call hm in front of his mom.
He passes well, she's just blinded by mother's love and ignorance.
His hair is soft between my fingers, dyed a soft auburn,
and I love it.
I love him.
He is valid and he matters.
He won't see this, but when we meet up again maybe I'll be able to tell him
that he looks stunning in the purple light,
and I hope I'm not out of line saying he's beautiful.