The girl doesn’t live here but she knows the way
To find what she needs when everyone’s gone.
Clothes a woman wears on a sunny day;
The girl who doesn’t live here puts them on.
She puts them on, she tries them out, and sees
A child who must be somebody’s daughter;
All smiles, no curves, bright eyes, and scabby knees;
A girl cured by swimming in salt water.
A door knob turns, they’re home too soon, she runs
And stuffs the dream away. She doesn’t live here.
Her place belongs to someone else’s son.
He knows just what a boy should want and fear.
The mirror holds her memory like a mother;
The girl who doesn’t live here has no other.
This is the first of a series of sonnets I’m writing about my experience as a trans person. Thankfully, after coming out, the sonnet above no longer holds true. That girl does have a mother (and a father, too), and she loves them and is loved by them, deeply.