More Than Just My Flesh

You announced with conviction 
that you wanted a girlfriend,
so I set my transition on simmer
from atop the glowing red coils of the back burner,
and let it boil in secret.
Two-thousand miles
from my first home,
I was still a tourist
in this town. So,
I followed your lead,
adhered to your unspoken rules,
lifting my breasts
up to your standards
in bras with sharp underwire
that cut
into more
than my flesh. 
I softened your selfishness,
treated it as more important
than my dream of proving
everyone from middle school right
about wanting to be a boy.
After our two years were up,
it was another two
before I traded hormones,
before I met a nice woman
in a suburb of Baltimore
who turned the weight on my chest 
into biohazard. 
With these loud, jagged scars
and more thunder in my voice,
I defied your well of wishes. 
I transitioned
into myself.