There are sudden moments of ecstatic joy, but it’s terrifying to realise what you want to be and everything you’ve forced down
You’re fairly sure your skin has always been a problem. A problem before you even realised, lurking in the background of your earliest memories. Never with a clear mark for when you realised it was a problem. (When you realised what it means, to hate your skin so much.) But with signs scattered throughout your life.
The very earliest sign was swimming. Or clothes in general, really, but swimming was the easy one. When you swam, you always wore (and always still wear) a shirt, even though the males of your family don’t. More broadly, you refuse to ever be seen without one. You called it modesty, but now you know it as shame. Shame for your square-ish, flat, slightly hairy flesh prison. Because, even then, you knew your chest should be covered up, even though your skin is flush against your ribs and males don’t need to cover up.
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