So I’m getting my face cut open—
and somehow that’s the good news.*
They’re gonna take a saw
to this skull I’ve been living in,
sand down the man that never fit,
and build something closer
to the mirror in my mind.
Which is wild, right?
Like—
imagine emailing God’s customer service
and being like,
“Hey, uh, love the concept,
but this one’s defective.”
And now I’m flying to San Francisco
like it’s Mecca for misgendered miracles,
where scalpels are holy relics
and every scar is a psalm.
I keep thinking about the moment
I wake up.
What if I don’t recognize her?
What if I finally do?
What if the first thing I say is,
“Oh… there you are.”
There’s fear in that—yeah.
Like what if the anesthesia keeps me honest
and I start crying before I even know why?
What if I’m still ugly?
What if I’m still me?
What if—
God, what if that’s the point.
Because this isn’t about pretty.
It’s about peace.
It’s about not flinching when I catch my reflection
in a gas station bathroom mirror at 2 AM.
It’s about walking through TSA
and not praying the scanner
reads my bones like a confession.
It’s about survival.
And also, yeah,
it’s about the mirror and I finally calling a truce.
I’ve been scared for months—
of pain, of money,
of being alone with a straw
and a blender full of soup.
But I’m more scared of not doing it.
Of staying half-finished forever,
a sketch that never got colored in.
And listen—
if this goes wrong,
I’ll still wake up April.
Maybe swollen.
Maybe stitched.
But still here.
Still loud.
Still stubbornly alive.
Because fear is the tax on becoming real.
And hope?
Hope is the anesthesia—
they pump it in
so you can make it through
the cutting.
So yeah.
They’re gonna break my face open.
And I’m gonna let them.
Because sometimes,
becoming yourself
means starting from the bones out.
Wish me luck.
I’ve got an appointment with the mirror.
