I came with the wrong instructions.
Box said “boy,”
But when I opened it up—
Nothing fit right.
Like a DIY nightmare from IKEA,
Missing half the pieces
And no Allen wrench in sight.
So I built myself anyway.
Some assembly required.
Doctors called it a defect.
Society called it a phase.
My family called it a shame.
And me?
I called it Tuesday.
See, I’ve been dodging misgendering
Like it’s dodgeball in middle school gym class—
Which, by the way,
Was the first time I prayed for death
Because nothing says “man up”
Like getting hit in the face with a rubber ball
And being called “faggot” before your voice even drops.
I picked at my skin because it didn’t fit.
Like a sweater two sizes too small,
Like a Halloween costume I never took off,
Like a mask stapled to my face,
And when I finally started peeling it back,
They told me I was ruining myself.
No ma’am. I was revealing myself.
They said I was confused.
That I was “going through a thing.”
Yeah, I’m going through a thing.
It’s called puberty, round two.
Ding Ding
They tell me I’ll never be a “real” woman.
As if womanhood is a gated community
And the HOA just denied my application.
Like “real” is something you measure in cup sizes,
Like “real” means suffering the way they expect,
Like “real” isn’t just existing
And saying, “I am.”
They say, “You’ll always be a man deep down.”
Deep down?
I checked.
Just vibes and estrogen, baby.
They act like I did this for fun.
Like I traded in my old life
For a deluxe package of hate crimes,
Medical debt,
And awkward conversations in public restrooms.
Like I walked into a Build-A-Bitch workshop
And asked for the “get disowned by your family” upgrade.
Like I chose this
For the attention.
Yeah, Karen, I love the attention.
I love getting stared at in bathrooms,
Love getting clocked in checkout lines,
Love being a political talking point
For men who still think “gender”
Comes in blue or pink.
But you know what I do love?
Waking up and not wanting to die.
Finally recognizing the person in the mirror.
Filling out the shape of my own name
Without choking on it.
Because I made myself.
Took the mismatched parts,
Stripped the rust,
Bolted down the seams,
And stood in the wreckage of who they told me I had to be—
Laughing.
Because the truth is—
I wasn’t born broken.
I was born a builder.
And sometimes some assembly is required.
