The woman inside me hears me, she whispers to me in the dark.
I’m here, she says; in a small, quiet voice. Distant, but distinct. She grows louder each day, gaining confidence with every passing moment, every quiet second spent wondering who’s there.
She whispers a promise, that we could be happy, if I would just let her outside. But she knows of my doubts. She knows of my fears. So until I am ready, she stays quiet.
The woman inside me hates me. No wonder: she’s trapped inside.
My friends wouldn’t get her, my family would fear her, so I hide her from the world. Our little secret, getting bigger every day. She’s lonely, of course. And tired. Tired of having a singular friend, who is too scared to introduce her to anyone else. Tired of being alone in a world that would hate her. Tired of being a man. Tired of being me.
The woman inside me could love me, if I would just let her out.
But I’m afraid, I’m afraid.
I’m afraid of her judgement, much stricter than mine. It’s been worn down over the years. “If you can’t have good, settle for decent!” It’s a little sad, but it works. I see the ways her eyes survey me, seeking to make me good. But I don’t need to be good. I just need to be me, that is enough. She disagrees. We could be beautiful, she tells me again, and just be ourselves. But I am already myself. If she is simply not there, I can be myself without worry.
I’m afraid of their judgement, as passed onto her. I wish that I wasn’t, but it gets to you. The lectures, the disdain, for people who are other than me. So why does it hurt so much? They’re hurting my friends, yes, but it’s closer, dearer. They aren’t hurting me, but they are hurting her. They hate the sin, love the sinner, but she is the sin. She is my sin.
The woman inside me knows me, even when I wish she would not.
She knows of the nights spent waiting for an answer that would never come. She knows of the countless letters sent. She knows of the shattered hope, the despair, the futility, the freedom.
She knows of the wish, drawn onto paper and locked away in the deepest chest. I wished for love, for someone I could never be with: I wished for her. And there she was. Not with me, but inside me. A little corner of my heart, occupied by that I wished for most. No longer alone.
She knows of the past, I’d been told, I’d been taught: she isn’t real, don’t listen to her. She’s a sin. She’s a temptress. She’s the devil. No wonder she was afraid to whisper, I’m here. But she waited, and she stayed.
The woman inside me is patient, but I am not.
We can’t live like this, I can’t live like this. You are kind and you are cruel. You make me happy when I’m alone with you. You make me sad for the years I’ve lost. You make me hope. Hope, that tomorrow we might be happy with more than just the two of us.
So please, woman inside me, will you take my hand and leap?
