Before I Die

Ef.20.CZe rep.,single,❅ = GENTLEMAN, WOMEN, DREAMS.
1pint: true
nouveaumirai: Low Classic Fall/Winter 2013 backstage
freakytransgirl: Dysphoria. After a while you begin to imagine yourself, as you. Not as how you look, but how you are. In your own mind each thing you do, each movement you make is being done by her. She is beautiful. Not because she is attractive, but just because she is right – she looks like how you feel, her movements match your thoughts and her curves and touch feel so real in your mind that when you reach down and touch your body its takes you by surprise. She isn’t perfect, but neither are you, her flaws are your flaws, she is how you see yourself, the good and the bad.        She walks in your footsteps, haunting you through the day. She follows you around, not reminding you of the beauty you have inside you – but rather the disgusting shell on the outside. You look down at your body. It’s not her. You look to the future, and it’s never her. It’s nearly her, but not. It’s the best they can do. The best you can look forward to. The closest you can get The nearest you can come You can change your face; you can change your body. You can change your voice and you can change your clothes. Change your friends, change your home, change your job. Change your family, change your life. But it’s not her. You’re the pale imitation of your true self, a representation that’s taken years to come to. Thousands of dollars and thousands of hours – crying, hurting, sitting, praying, dreaming, shouting, screaming. All to reach the end, to become- nearly you. Then you get laughed at – you get mocked, you get teased, humiliated, attacked and rejected. You’re treated differently for not looking quite right. It’s not your choice though. Don’t these people realise that if you could look right, you would? That if she walked around the street, they wouldn’t bother her. This isn’t your choice. You are not choosing to be different, you just can’t quite be normal And that kills you inside. That makes every single glance in a mirror, and every single comment reminds you:  How many years do I have to do this? Hoping for the impossible, whilst trying to forget the present. This is not life. This is not life. This is time spent wanting a life. Wanting your life. Wanting her. And that hurts. More than you could imagine. It just hurts. 
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