There was no doubt in my mind that this body, my body, belonged to a woman. My hips are softer yet still punctuated by sharp bones. My hair has begun thinning and regressing into the hair of my childhood, smooth, slightly wavy; stark white strands peeking through the varying shades of brown. My age surfacing in random pink spiderwebs along my legs; the lines under my eyes deepening. This urge. This urge is real.
I had, rather recklessly, become attached to the idea that the only way of achieving a true semblance of human balance was through the violent clash of complete and total opposites. Perhaps this was the work of my parents doing. Perhaps this was because I had unwittingly subscribed to this belief through inherent narcism. But it was there, fermenting deep in my psyche regardless. Could this be it? A union of light and dark, black and white, right and wrong that nestled itself deep into a beautiful gray? Strange to find myself planning for such a storm.
My history tells me that I am naive and far too gullible for long term relationships. Too immature for craving and expecting unconditional love and worship. My body tells me that I am too impatient to abstain. My mind knows that I run the risk of losing it with this one, that learning to trust someone again can only end one way. And would it be worth it? To trust him is to trust myself.
All this time I have been growing, expanding, compressing, realizing, fighting. To become. Who I am, who I will be, who I need to be.
