A Poem About Dysphoria

“There’s no light here. The sky is black and the sun hides behind a veil of perpetual night, so there are no shadows cast by my body. It’s as if I’m not even real. But I am real. This thing that clings to me, this wretched husk that refuses to let go - it’s real too, and it hurts. I want to tear it away from myself but I can’t because I need it to survive.”

The narrator is sitting at their desk, staring at the computer screen in front of them. They have been writing for hours now, trying to get their thoughts down on paper. But they keep getting interrupted by the voice in their head, telling them that what they’re saying isn’t good enough. That they should just give up.

They take a deep breath and continue typing. “This body…it’s wrong. It doesn’t feel like mine. I don’t know how to describe it except to say that every time I look in the mirror or touch myself, it feels like someone else did it first.”

They stop again, frowning at the words they have written. How do you explain something that defies explanation? How do you tell people what it’s like to be trapped inside your own skin?