boy in a dress. pig in makeup. flower of blood soaked soil. soldier in pink, muzzled hound. the beast’s upturned belly, the sleeping patient’s bared flesh. offal. an approximation of womanhood, the sketch of a girl — and in that way, completely right. the mirror a kind of hell, a kind of monster, a kind of doom. awkward being. the blisters from heels, the deer gait, the wobbling knees. the crooked eyeliner. the suffocating sweet perfume. the everything fitting wrong. the feeling too big, the never being small enough. boy in a dress. girl deconstructed. girl picked apart, girl dissected. empty stomach, bloated heart, glitter among the rot. am i pretty yet? am i pretty yet? the lip bitten raw asks. kiss me, please. tell me i’m not nothing. make me believe it. the star-eyed child repeats without thought. he cannot tell the difference. he cannot seperate the fruit from the mold. maybe no one can. maybe there is no seperation, from string and thread, matter from atom. boy in a dress. the only kind of girl who can be happy.