Frozen in a moment in time. Yearning to change. Trapped in a see-thru coffin while others pass like a chrysalis on display for a dissection in the science lab.
I yearn to change and become what I was meant to be and that thing is anything but what I currently am. To remove a false identity implanted by what I’ve been told. Unfortunately the process to remake yourself is monetarily costly even if mentally you’re already there. And so I made myself available to others at a price. I kept my current 9-5 and targeted Friday nights and weekends as my side job, lest I lose my insurance in the wake of a devastating newfound STD. The lowest moment was when I accepted an offer from a junkie and used a shopping bag as a condom. But after six months of enduring humiliation I had saved up enough to finally achieve my metamorphoses.
First were the breasts but that was a trial and error ordeal. It turned out I was allergic to silicone and my body didn’t produce enough fat to do a fat transfer –assuming I could even afford the fancier surgery. I ended up having them cut away but I was not deterred. What has been taken can be rebuilt with more sacrifice.
The prep for the final surgery was quick, just a single meeting was made to determine my candidacy. Then the surgery came where they took away what I affectionately referred to as the flesh tumor. As they cut pieces of me away, like a chisel applied to a statue, I welcomed this act of unmaking. However, my surgeon was no Michelangelo and I ended up far removed from La Pieta. The pain was immense and there was a constant stink of rot emanating from me like open sewage –this overpowering stench of feces and decay. I screeched when the pitiless nurse took the white phallus and dilated my wound until I grabbed at the feminine device and beat her with it in rage and tears. They gave me morphine before handing over a mirror to gaze at the wound which resembled a crude opening performed via chainsaw. More morphine was prescribed until I ran out and substituted that with hard drugs.
Time passed and I had come to realize that I am a failed alchemist, trading flesh for new flesh, and the body is but commodity to others where my body is fuel for the machine; I work the little job, I pay for the means to change where I pay for that treatment via doctors and prescriptions, and I will pay for that eternally. When I made it home I sat down in front of a mirror fully nude and stared into the abyss: I imagined it to be a pink palace but it looked like red meat haphazardly arranged with already a forest of hair growing outwards. I renounce the flesh portal and reach in, pulling pieces of meat and hair away until my back breaks and I am inside myself to suffocate. There’s a metaphor there.