In Honor of TIC this Weekend
The translating identity conference is this weekend. We miss your pocket pussies, Gabi!
Waking Up
I love the moments first thing in the morning when I’m just waking up. I can’t remember who I am then, what I have to do that day, what tests I have to take, or what people I promised I’d meet up with that I don’t really want to see. Most importantly, I don’t remember what it is I’ll see when I throw off the sheets.
I have a nice body, it’s pretty even. I’ve got curves where people like to see curves, smooth skin, and breasts that people have complimented so often that I wonder if they know there’s a person attached to them. It’s a great body, but it’s not mine and I would kill to get rid of it.
Ok, maybe that’s a bit much. What I’d kill for is to get rid of the feeling I have every day, the feeling that I’m in a disguise. Every morning I wake up and I put on my make-up, my Uggs, and my cute mini-skirt or shress of the day like a good little girl and I feel like I’m going around in drag. I want to be wearing baggy jeans and loose sweatshirts. I want my hair to be so short that I don’t even need to own a brush. I want to not feel like I’m telling a lie every time I introduce myself as Natalie.
I told my best friend, an ultra-prissy girl I love to hate, about it once, about how I feel like I was born into the wrong kind of body. I told her it was just a sometimes kind of feeling, but now she thinks I’m just some sort of butch lesbian in denial. She didn’t tell anyone else about it, but she’s stopped hanging out with me too. I haven’t told anyone else since. I just went back to the lipstick and mini-skirts.
I’m not gay; I know that. Hell, sex in general is the farthest thing from my mind these days. But what is it that I want? It’s only in the morning that I can let myself think about it. Then I can imagine that when I pull off my sheets I’ll see a smooth, flat chest, one that I don’t have to bother hiding under a shirt. I’ll be bigger than I really am, taller and with more muscle on me. I dream that I’ll get up and throw out all of the make-up and hair junk that’s cluttering my shelf and replace it all with a stick of deodorant and a razor blade.
But then I wake up before my thoughts can go much further. I know who I am, who I have to be. I’m not some weirdo and I’m going to live my life the way everyone’s told me is right. I mean, what else is there? My parents would freak if I… Anyway, it’s almost time for class and I know my friends are going to want to know all about that guy I hooked up with this weekend. They won’t know that I punched him while we were going at it. I told him that it was my fetish. I’d rather he thinks I’m kinky than know he made me feel sick. He was the cutest guy at the party after all.
I take a deep breath as I leave my dorm and put a smile on, the same one I wear every day. It feels big and toothy and made of plastic. I’m waiting for the day that it feels normal. I’m waiting for the day that I feel normal.
Some times I feel like everything about me, really about me, is a secret. But the biggest secret that no one can ever know is just how much I wish I’d never wake up in the morning.
Waking Up
I love the moments first thing in the morning when I’m just waking up. I can’t remember who I am then, what I have to do that day, what tests I have to take, or what people I promised I’d meet up with that I don’t really want to see. Most importantly, I don’t remember what it is I’ll see when I throw off the sheets.
I have a nice body, it’s pretty even. I’ve got curves where people like to see curves, smooth skin, and breasts that people have complimented so often that I wonder if they know there’s a person attached to them. It’s a great body, but it’s not mine and I would kill to get rid of it.
Ok, maybe that’s a bit much. What I’d kill for is to get rid of the feeling I have every day, the feeling that I’m in a disguise. Every morning I wake up and I put on my make-up, my Uggs, and my cute mini-skirt or shress of the day like a good little girl and I feel like I’m going around in drag. I want to be wearing baggy jeans and loose sweatshirts. I want my hair to be so short that I don’t even need to own a brush. I want to not feel like I’m telling a lie every time I introduce myself as Natalie.
I told my best friend, an ultra-prissy girl I love to hate, about it once, about how I feel like I was born into the wrong kind of body. I told her it was just a sometimes kind of feeling, but now she thinks I’m just some sort of butch lesbian in denial. She didn’t tell anyone else about it, but she’s stopped hanging out with me too. I haven’t told anyone else since. I just went back to the lipstick and mini-skirts.
I’m not gay; I know that. Hell, sex in general is the farthest thing from my mind these days. But what is it that I want? It’s only in the morning that I can let myself think about it. Then I can imagine that when I pull off my sheets I’ll see a smooth, flat chest, one that I don’t have to bother hiding under a shirt. I’ll be bigger than I really am, taller and with more muscle on me. I dream that I’ll get up and throw out all of the make-up and hair junk that’s cluttering my shelf and replace it all with a stick of deodorant and a razor blade.
But then I wake up before my thoughts can go much further. I know who I am, who I have to be. I’m not some weirdo and I’m going to live my life the way everyone’s told me is right. I mean, what else is there? My parents would freak if I… Anyway, it’s almost time for class and I know my friends are going to want to know all about that guy I hooked up with this weekend. They won’t know that I punched him while we were going at it. I told him that it was my fetish. I’d rather he thinks I’m kinky than know he made me feel sick. He was the cutest guy at the party after all.
I take a deep breath as I leave my dorm and put a smile on, the same one I wear every day. It feels big and toothy and made of plastic. I’m waiting for the day that it feels normal. I’m waiting for the day that I feel normal.
Some times I feel like everything about me, really about me, is a secret. But the biggest secret that no one can ever know is just how much I wish I’d never wake up in the morning.