At six weeks, my skin felt the coldness
and the sharpness of the steel scalpel,
as it tore through my infant abdomen.
Unformed and benign gonads,
with their unfulfilled destinies,
wreaking havoc on my newness.
Brought into conscious existence
unbeknown of my incompleteness;
my cells deriving my complexities.
The incision opens me up to all,
highlighting my variable uniqueness;
my gender now determined by society.
Two scrolling scars span the width of me;
a reminder of my genetic difference —
the reference point to my questions.
Only years later will I uncover their
full and earth-shattering meaning;
their silence echoing my screams.
A mirror shows their hideousness,
as their long-awaited story uncovered —
the fairytale with no happy ending.
By Sarah Hobbs
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