i cant look at myself in the mirror for too long
not just because i hate the way i look; i do,
i hate the way my cheeks are too chubby and my hair is never just right, how my eyes are too wide or my face too textured.
i hate the way i still can’t see a boy, no matter how hard i try, no matter how much i change and wish, i can never see what i want to see.
but the real reason i hate looking in the mirror is because i remember the kid i was
the little one who wore tie dye shirts and sequined cats and rainbows and glitter without a care in the world
the one with frizzy hair that kinda looked like dora, because i didn’t know how to take care of my curls
the one who loved hello kitty, the one who wore a ponytail all the time, the one who didn’t really care what others though about him
because i can’t exactly remember what made me so self conscious of the way i walked, ate, moved, stood. i mean, i can remember things that made me feel worse about it, but i can’t remember what made it start, no matter how hard i try.
i cant remember when i started wearing baggy hoodies and oversized clothes, when i started noticing the way people looked at me, when i started to be self conscious of things i never noticed before.
i wonder what went wrong, what turned me into the monster i see in my reflection.
the monster that hates people, who tries to be something it’s not, the one who lies, who pretends, the one who hates school now, the one who tries to be invisible, the one who wants to run away, the one who fears the world more than the world feels it
mabye im not the monster but i sure feel like one 
i’ve been told i should, anyway.
i don’t remember when i started to listen to those who told me what i was, when i stopped trying to try.
and now when i look in the mirror i cry because why can’t i just be that kid again?
i didn’t want to become this, the transgender boy with chubby cheeks, scars on his arms, the fear of being seen or touched.
i didn’t want to hate being awake and yet hate sleeping just as much, i didn’t want to hate school, i didn’t want to feel like my drawings were never good enough, my words never good enough, my stories never good enough, my poetry never good enough.
i never wanted to feel like my own thoughts weren’t good enough.
i never wanted to feel like this, period.
i never thought about growing up when i was little, it seemed like i’d be a kid forever
i didn’t know then that i would lose my youth at the ripe age of 14, in my 5th hospital in under a year.
or mabye when i lost it when i was 13, when i was told by the doctors they didn’t know if i was ever going to feel better
or mabye when i was 12, being told i wasn’t okay, that i was a *danger* to myself.
or mabye when i was 11, when i first picked up that blade.
or mabye when i was 10, and the world flew into a frenzy of fear, sickness, death, and hatred.
or mabye when i was 9, when i realized how i didn’t look or think the same as the other kids.
or mabye when i was 8, when i was surrounded by wannabe suicidal kids.
or mabye it was before that.
i don’t know; i probably won’t.
but every time i look in the mirror: my
own, a friends, a shop window, a computer screen, a picture,
i wonder why i can’t just be that kid again, or atleast, why i can’t be a regular 14-year-old.