My Body - TG

My stomach's full. It feels like it's going to burst. I press a hand against it, but it just makes me feel worse. I hate the sensation.

My chest is sore. But it's not the type of sore that feels like it's expanding. I hate that even more, and I tug at the flesh a little to prove it. I hate that it's so flat.

I hate my body. I hate it so much sometimes that it hurts. Other times I just want to hurt it, but everyone tells me that's not healthy. All I know is that the form doesn't feel like it's mine.

I don't know why that is. I hear theories, sometimes, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter if it doesn't feel like my form because of the media. It doesn't matter if form doesn't matter. It doesn't matter if I should be comfortable with who I am no matter how I look. It won't matter no matter how many times they say it. Because it still hurts.

They don't get it. They don't understand it. They don't feel it. It's something like how I imagine depression to be almost, but not quite. That basic despondency that chases you throughout the day, that feeling that you're not quite there at any given point. The sensation that everything is always wrong. And yet you're happy. Or at least you  think you're happy, most of the time. I think so, at any rate.

I have friends. I have friends who care about me, and I love them, even if they don't understand. I want to hug them so much, but I'm afraid they'll realize something is up. We play games and it makes me happy. We talk about things and it makes me happy. We do anything at all together and it makes me happy – but there's still that feeling.

An undercurrent is the best that I can explain it. That sensation that says something is off and it just won't last. Maybe they'd stop being friends if they knew. Maybe they'd be friends, but look at you differently. Maybe, even if they looked at you exactly the same, it wouldn't matter. Maybe they'd still see just a boy. Maybe you'd just be a boy.

Maybe all I am is a boy.

I  try to push that thought away, but it won't leave. Like my bloated stomach it swells up inside of me until I want to cry. It fills me with tears and regret, so I squeeze my eyes shut. But when I squeeze my eyes shut, everything changes.

When my eyes are closed, my breasts swell. My stomach is flat and my hips are wide. I walk with a slight saunter that looks nothing at all like I stumble. I'm confident, with friends who love me as a girl. In fact, some of my male friends are female, too – but only for the moment. I don't want to change them, I just want to relate to them on a new level. I wonder if that even makes sense

I'm wearing a blouse and skirt when I close my eyes. It has cleavage on it, though not anything slutty; just enough to show off the fact that I have breasts. My bra even gives them room to bounce.

My skirt flounces around me, rather than being one of those tight things. It's there more to say that I have a skirt than to say that I have nothing but girlhood beneath it. The white panties are there for the other thing. I giggle at the idea, for a moment, but then compose myself. A girl must be composed, and when my eyes are closed, I'm a girl.

When my eyes are closed, my hair is long, too. It flows in silken waves across my entire form, an ocean current that never leaves me. It sways in the wind, and feels nice against my neck, and has a little bit of curl at the end. It's a golden brown, like a perfectly toasted marshmallow, and oh so fluffy. It goes well with my eyes.

When my eyes open again, I'm lying in bed. I'm naked and sweating, and my stomach still hurts  a little, but I don't mind. There's flesh poking out under the blankets a little, and I press a finger against it, shivering. It's a breast, and it's real. I think it's real. I don't think I'm dreaming.

There are doctors talking. I think they're doctors. They have white coats. I can spot my parents, too, and my friends, and my siblings. They all have worried expressions on their faces, but I don't know why.

Maybe they still see me as a boy. Or maybe I was never a boy, and I dreamt the whole thing, and that's why they're worried. It doesn't matter.

I press my breast again, wiggling my legs again to confirm my knowledge. I ignore the doctor; even if I'm dying, I don't want to know. It doesn't matter.

The cause doesn't matter. All that matters is that the feeling is gone. That I'm still worried, still afraid, but that I feel good. Because this is my body.