Do you remember me? 

Short brown bangs with two penny dimples? 

Do you regret changing my life? 

I still pray to avoid the waitress I once said “you too” to at the cafe a few blocks down. At night do you lie awake in bed and groan at my memory? 

I think I might prefer being forgotten than to have you think like that about me on that day 

late April, seventh grade, over-sized black sweatpants too thick for the kind of heat we were getting, 

how you took your child to “thank the nice man for his help.” 

Think about me short and chubby, too big shirt plastered to my skin from pushing the merry go round, long hair greasy and bright 

and walked away.

If you're anything like me then that night we both lay in bed thinking the same thing “why did [you] say that” 

8 months ago I had stood in the shower and realised it had no idea what it felt like to be a girl. 

3 months ago I had bought my first binder. 

1 month ago I had told my mom I wasn't sure if I was entirely a girl and she told me I was a lesbian and it was all anxiety. 

6 hours ago you named me a man, placed hyacinth on my lips and went back to your Subaru. 

It's been 3 years, my lungs have become bellows and my blood charcoal, the red bluebells dropped down my throat twine round my aortic and my left breast is warm to the touch. 

Don't groan, you were right all along.