I’m sick of this body
Sick of this dysphoria. 
Sick of wearing 8 layers in 96 degree heat just to feel less insecure.
I want to be free.
I want to be me.
I want to be free from these consequences of growing up.
Free from the blood being forced to spill out of me, staining every piece of clothing with nothing but a cruel reminder of the body I was given. The body I’m stuck with.
Free from what they call “womanhood.”
What they call “girlhood.”
What they call “happiness.”
What they call “beauty.”
I want to heal the happy, non-dysphoric kid deep inside of me, just begging to be let out.
Begging to let myself wear what I want.
Begging to let myself breathe.
Begging to be free.
But what does it mean?
Being free.
Free could be years ago; a past that you can only imagine.
Free could be in adulthood where you could be free from the burden of binding to cover up what almost every girl embraces. 
What they want to be bigger.
What they let define them.
But why?
Free is crippling debt.
Being forced to pay your life savings just so you can feel “free.”
But are you really free?
Losing your childhood?
Losing your teenage years?
A time where you’re supposed to be most happy.
But you’re not.
Free is unrealistic.
Free is a fire boiling inside me with every step I take.
Free is a spark being lit into a flame.
But free isn’t what they make it out to be.
Free is a lie that they want us to believe for profit.
For pity.
But if you could just imagine; what it would be like. 
What would it be like? 
To really be free.