Everywhere I am, I know there are invisible men 
watching me with their invisible eyes, 
brushing my shoulders with their invisible hands. 

They’re all different. Straight, gay, white, black.
Trans.
They all watch me.
Watch how my wrist goes limp,
how I cross my legs when I sit, 
how my voice rises in octaves when I’m excited. 

I try to tell them it’s only reflex.
It’s who I am.
But that’s no excuse—because I’m nothing
I’m stupid
I’m disgusting.
I’ll never be a man like them.

They judge me from around every corner. 
Watch me talk about queers in school, wear my binder, cut my hair
then say I’m a girl.
I’m such a fucking liar,
a cop out,
a cheat.
I’m a disgrace to the cause.
I’m a girl.
I’m not a boy.
I’ll never be a man like them.

They’re all so confident, with their glitter eyeshadow
combat boots
and silicone dicks.
I wish I could be like them.
They tell me to square my shoulders,
hold my head high,
contour my jaw and deepen my voice.
But I can’t. I’m too scared.
I’m scared of coming out. 
I’m scared of gym class, the coach never knowing if I should be with the boys or the girls,
if I’ll molest one of the girls in the locker room
or if one of the boys will beat me to death if I’m with them. 
My freshman year, a boy said he was going to “kill some bitches” over a stupid game.
I think about him a lot. 

The invisible men tell me I’m better than him, 
that I’ll never be one of them.
Those big, hulking guys
with beer and inferiority complexes in their belly. 

My dad always told me I was always like him.
Except there was one difference.
Now that it’s gone, I think I’ve let him down. 
I was always supposed to be his little girl,
not his faggy son with rainbow blood. 

I want to get a fake ID and go to gay clubs; it’s all there is around here.
But would I be accepted then?
Cis men scare me. I don’t want them touching my baby face and slim waist.
I don’t want to be some bio-boy’s butch bottom bitch. 
I’m never calling any of them Daddy, Papi, Sir. 
I’m not an experiment with an extra hole.
I’m a person.
That’s what I tell myself. 

I want to be with the invisible men.
Men like the one I will never be.
They disappear with every second glance over my shoulder.

I know it would never work. I don’t have the Adam’s apple.
The wide hands.
The strong thighs.
I’m too gross for them.
They want bio-boys, strong and steady
with big cocks.
Good for them.

I wish they would show themselves.
Come out of hiding.
I’m so alone, lost and confused.
I want to be loved.
But I’m no good.

I want to be equals. 
I can’t be equals with a dude who has had sperm in him since he was two.
My dream boy isn’t a boy.
He’s a boi.
Transfag extraordinaire. 
Soft hair, soft lips, small hands.
Limp wrist, long eyelashes.
That extra hole.
Binded breasts and blue eyes.
I’d love him. I’d love him.
My love is good enough, isn’t it?
Everything else is collateral... 
I’m enough.

I’d be a good husband. Even if my gender marker still says F.
Just think of it as in “Fuck you.”

The invisible men pass me by all the time.
No hello.
No goodbye.
They just glance into my eyes.
Don’t they see I’m trying to be the best I can be?
I wish they would show themselves to me.

Why are we all so scared of love?

Never enough. Never was.
Never will be. 
Being a man like them
is only a dream.

I’m sorry, I say.
No reply.
In the mirror, an invisible man stares back at me.

(Photo by Opening Ceremony)

Xavier Muth

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