I wish I could hold her in my arms, nothing in the world being able to touch us. Not me feeling like I am constantly lacking something because of my body.
The horrible feeling I get in my stomach which I try so hard to ignore, would just float away.
My family, what’s left of it, not constantly pounding against my skull, thudding, so I can’t hear anything else.
I wish that my only worry was feminist theory and getting to work on time.
That I didn’t have to hide myself in the bathroom when I cry sometimes because I’m ashamed.
That when I showered with my girlfriend, the only thing I can think of is getting lucky.
Instead of how petrified I am to look down at myself, let alone her look at me.
Because no matter how many times I trick myself into confidence. I hate myself.
I wish that I could just be worried about eating too much food this Christmas.
Not about having toilet accidents when I try to pee standing up.
Or the fact I can’t wear my favourite clothes because people will know.
I wish I wasn’t in bed right now thinking about how I’ve failed to piece my family back together.
When I should be worried about running out of sellotape, to wrap presents.
I wish that I didn’t have to worry about my mum being mentally stable, about my brother, who’s now my sister, taking unprescribed hormones, and I wish I could forget the things that she said to me. About how I can’t handle being a man. I wish that my dad knew that since my mum threw him out, she’s never been the same, I wish he knew how happy I am that he’s got a family.
Because I feel like I haven’t got much of one left.
I wish I had a childhood.
I haven’t got much of myself left.