The subterfuge is tiresome - my septum ring flipped up every time I come home, hiding the undercuts in my hair with the long hair falling over and my nails trimmed short short short. I’m tired of waiting to tell them.
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I remember the list of positions, one-two-three-four-five; the tension in my calves, the brittle arch of my arms as I balanced on the balls of my feet. Ageless, thoughtless reflexes inhabit my body, ghosts in a haunted house. You don’t outgrow what you learn that early on
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