she.

when i was she, i was not me, but i was the me that everyone thought that i should be. when i was she, i was a she with no he and a she with no glee, a she that drifted through the world on tiptoe so as not to make a sound on the old wooden floorboards of the house containing my tiny little box.

when i was she, i laughed and smiled and wore pretty dresses and grew out my hair, but i still wasn’t me. when i was she, i detached myself and floated off into the void, letting the she take control because me taking control was too terrifying.

she she she. me me me. flip flop, back and forth, over and over, for 20 years, falling down a dark corridor into madness and depression and anxiety and fear and loneliness and inauthentic personhood. i stumbled and i tumbled and i lied, but i also cried and cried and cried, because i never once, during those 20 years of falling, allowed myself to just be me. i am not always she.