xtrachrispyduck

My reflection stood naked before me. Behind her, on the bed lay an outfit prepared for school. A bra that was supposedly “so cute” and gifted to me by my loving mother, a tiny pair of panties designed to confine my form, a pair of jeans that flared out at the top in preparation for the “womanly” hips I would soon have, and my least favorite of all: A deep red, flowing blouse smothered with azaleas. The whole outfit perfectly embodied feminism, and I, having two X chromosomes firmly planted on my DNA hated every inch of it. I stared past my reflection and gazed at the bed for a long time before failing, once again, to come up with a reason why I felt this way. I locked eyes with my reflection and tried hard not to hate the two lumps that had started making a home on my chest. I still couldn’t imagine why I wanted them gone so badly. They were supposed to be the ultimate mark of femininity, weren’t they? I should be excited to find out who I will be in the coming years, but instead, all