What is Me?

When I looked in the mirror and saw this distant formless mess
I couldnt believe that it was me because I was told that he was me,
And day after day I dig and tunnel through this face and try to find
What the world was seeing that I was missing.
I stare in silence, change the shape, grow the bangs shave the sides
Looking for the mirror to show the spirit I knew was inside
Is this what my brother felt? Is it fair to compare the feeling?
He is so sure that he is he and why doesnt that fit me?
Why am I so formless? What even is me?
Why cant I find….
A word.
The language I speak fails to find a word that fits me
like he or she
Has it been the words that have betrayed me as I shape and mold the clay
Into some socially unrecognizable form
That even though Ive found the words im still told that I must fit
Into a mold I was not made from.
A mold I was not designed for.
I am not he, I am not she
But still I force a shape as close as I can get,
And what gets made does not have smooth edges or rounded corners
It is a mass of dents and imperfections and could-bes and should-bes
And the harder I try the messier it gets because no one taught me how to sculpt
And I have unsteady hands and a scattered mind
And I just want to be me
But all Ive been given is he

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