Cured
When I was a child, I thought I was a girl. I was going to be just like my Mum when I grew up.
I harboured small dreams. To work in a small office, as something, like a typist, say, I could take important messages on the telephone, type important emails For some other more important woman, who thrived on stress and drama. Which I do not.
I would go home, happily each night to a small flat and a small cat and make small talk and sex with some man. And smile a small smile, often. Pleased, at my small lot.
But then one day they told me, I was supposed to be a boy. I was quite insistent they were wrong, they were quite adamant that they were not.
They had the cure or so they thought. And so I was cured like ham, or beef. Bled to death, eviscerated salted, sliced and arranged into attractive packaging.
But I spoiled, I became quickly un-cured.
There was no outrage or outcry, no protest or campaign, just a simple and enduring act of escape.
and there is no small job no small flat, or cat. No small talk or man. All of that died. Now, instead, I try to fit the broken parts together.
Content to just be, a woman, without question. Not much like my mum.