The municipality does not want to change my old name on my ID
After all the facial operations, I’m still afraid
the footsteps of boys in my face.
Despite my fake breasts, my reflection makes
still miss me. A wound is a door to many places.
I want to describe who I am, but only find masks.
Am I more than a bunch of shattered statues buried in a barren field?
My queerness is a fugue.
We keep questioning each other
but I’m tired
of having to prove I exist.
Alara Adilow
