Is it my body?
Or just a shell,
a mask carved by hands
that refuse to see me?

I wake each day,
a stranger to myself,
trapped in this skin,
screaming a name
that isn’t mine.

They tell me to fit,
to mold, to hide,
to become the image
they’ve drawn,
but inside, I’m burning,
yearning to be free.

Is it my body?
When every inch is owned
by a world that fears my truth,
that binds me with its gaze,
its harsh, relentless words?

I walk through their shadows,
each step heavy with their weight,
their judgments pressing down,
crushing my spirit.

In my dreams, I am whole,
my body, my own,
but in waking, I am torn,
a puppet to their fears,
their ignorance, their hate.

Is it my body?
When they silence my cries,
demand my obedience,
my compliance,
when they deny my pain?

I stand in defiance,
not out of choice, but necessity,
fighting for each breath,
each moment of being,
in a world that tries to erase me.

They tell me to wait,
to endure, to pretend,
as if my identity is a phase,
a fleeting storm,
not the core of who I am.

Is it my body?
Or theirs to dictate,
to shape, to own?

My tears are not weakness,
but the echoes of a battle
fought every day,
a fight for existence,
for recognition, for freedom.

But how much longer can I endure?
My spirit might just break,
and why would they care,
when they never did?