This Body

A poem from those dark days before transition began…

This body is not mine.

The name it was born with fits like the iron mask

of the Inquisition.

This body is not home.

All I've lived in and it's still strange, with unfamiliar art on the walls

and dirty dishes that never graced my table.

This body is not comfortable.

I itch with passions like nettles,

scattered, a realm ruled by a stranger.

This body is not mine.

I don't know who looks at me in the mirror. A man

who came from my mother's Womb

and stole my place in her heart.

This body stole my friends and lovers,

stole my clothes and dreams

and I go with it, without home.

by Seda

Hey, I never said it was good. The point is, my body is not me, and it has nothing at all to do with me – except it's the vessel that carries me around, my interface with the world. Like Mac OS running on a PC. The software doesn't function with this particular hardware.