Surviving

Kind of a story poem thing I guess

Every time you ask if I'm okay, I lie.

I hate it.

I say I'm fine, but I'm not.

I'm surviving.

Barely.

I'm hanging on by a thread.

She calls me her daughter.

Each day I live in fear of her finding out.

The tension between us is nearly unbearable. 
We've rebuilt our relationship. This will shove it into oblivion.

Is it wrong that I'm afraid she'll hit me?

She never has before, but how can be sure that she won't now?

In a way, I'm waiting for her die.

So I don't have to hear her tell me I'm wrong.

It's not puberty, it's not normal.

Its dysphoria.

Its painful and heartbreaking.

She calls me her daughter.

But I am her son.

So no.

I'm not okay.

Will I ever be okay?

I'm not sure.

But I'm surviving.

Author's Note

A mind-fuck turned into a mess of words that I decided to publish.