(Divided for fluidity: part 1 safe, part 2 male, part 3 transition, part 4 female)
As a male, I am hopeless. At least, I have no hope for happiness. It seems incompatible. I am anxious. I am depressed. I am wrong. I am so damned wrong. My body hair taunts me, sits like scars from a desperate surgery, tainting once pure flesh. My hands and feet are large, dwarfing, monstrous in their reach and extent. My eyebrows are thick like storm clouds, my face is harsh like rocks against waves. My voice is a cannon or a coffee grinder, my self lacks subtlety and grace. I am large, bulky, clumsy. I am worried, always worried. I grind my teeth awake and asleep, worried. I am wrong. The veins in my hands speak of age beyond me, speak of death while they breathe life. My chest is flab and pricks of hair, weeds after a costly war. Between my legs is a nuisance, a demon, a callous lackluster display of aimless flesh. A protrusion, a weapon, a tacit assertion where I mean to invite, a warning. My shoulders seek lebensraum, invading space around me while I try to reign them in, ashamed and fallen angel, wings wrapped around me. My beard an irrepressible disease, a herpes that can be cleared but never cleansed, a reminder of who I am am not cannot be.
As a male, I am hopeless. At least, I have no hope for happiness. It seems incompatible. I am anxious. I am depressed. I am wrong. I am so damned wrong. My body hair taunts me, sits like scars from a desperate surgery, tainting once pure flesh. My hands and feet are large, dwarfing, monstrous in their reach and extent. My eyebrows are thick like storm clouds, my face is harsh like rocks against waves. My voice is a cannon or a coffee grinder, my self lacks subtlety and grace. I am large, bulky, clumsy. I am worried, always worried. I grind my teeth awake and asleep, worried. I am wrong. The veins in my hands speak of age beyond me, speak of death while they breathe life. My chest is flab and pricks of hair, weeds after a costly war. Between my legs is a nuisance, a demon, a callous lackluster display of aimless flesh. A protrusion, a weapon, a tacit assertion where I mean to invite, a warning. My shoulders seek lebensraum, invading space around me while I try to reign them in, ashamed and fallen angel, wings wrapped around me. My beard an irrepressible disease, a herpes that can be cleared but never cleansed, a reminder of who I am am not cannot be.
I am distant. Pulled like a puppet. Commanded and obeying. I do not feel insomuch as I react. I wry and decry, deride and snide, snark and bark, not tough but too rough all the same. How can I want him/like him/love him? Who could want such an abomination? Who could want a predator, a carnivore who munches sullenly on grass while hungrily eying gazelles? Who could touch him unscathed? He is a mangy dog, snapping and pitiful. He is a shell. He is a mask. He is deficient. He is man's monster, risen from the dead to stalk and stumble towards a best-case complacency with a lifetime of gray and graying days. He is not who I am who I am cannot be not who not who not who whom being not no wrong.
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