Oh, to be comfortable in my skin,
to see the mirror not as an enemy,
but as a window into myself
to look and say without hesitation:
But the mirror is fickle.
into a body that feels borrowed,
a language that stumbles off my tongue,
a costume sewn with someone else’s thread.
I have lived as a ghost in my own house,
walking halls where every portrait
where the furniture cuts against my body,
where every reflection asks: Who are you?
I sandpaper my voice against stone,
I learn the music of myself
I drape my frame in fabrics
I etch Sophia into every gesture,
every breath, every heartbeat
The world does not make this easy.
They slice me with pronouns
they fold me into categories
no less beautiful for the waiting.
that finally feels familiar,
the way light touches my cheek
and calls me by the right name.
On those days, I dare to smile
even in the ache, in the waiting,
I know this body is not my enemy.
the soil I will sow with persistence.
the tiny defiance of lipstick,
the victory of a stranger’s
One day, I will no longer whisper.
I will no longer need to practice
the miracle of recognition.
becoming not a battlefield
And Sophia will not just live
in my mouth like a prayer,
she will stand whole before me
flesh and spirit aligned,
a truth no one can rename.
I will sing it loud enough
for every past version of me