I ask myself every day:
'Am I wearing a mask for a play?
And is the mask of a girl or a boy?'
This agony gives me no joy.

It's a question of my heart:
'Shall I stay or should I restart?'
So many broken years,
so many needless tears.

As they call me to harm,
I'm bleeding from my arm.
Red like roses, these scars
will meet in falling stars.

I wear a masculine mask
and to wear it is quite a task,
for I am a lady beneath,
and soon I will unsheathe.

Shame and doubt plague my soul
and confusion takes its toll.
Trapped in my very own flesh,
what am I but a wretch?

I dressed as a girl when I was alone
as if I was to atone
for the dissonance in my mind.
How could I have been so blind?

Who I am I still can't tell,
but I know I'm climbing out of this hell
to live as the lady I was born to be:
winged, unconfined, boundless, and free.