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hellaweaselswhen he wakes up in the morning he cries sometimes. because his hair is still short and there are days where it feels like a dream a hazy wonderful dream and he's terrified he'll wake up one day the curled locks'll be back giving him away even more than his voice.
he gets called cute now. and handsome. and charming and all those other positive words that never applied to her. she was never called cute, oh she was whispered about, yes, yes of course but it was never in sickly sweet tones, like you would with the untouchable unobtainable boys in teen magazines.
he gets called cute now. and he loves it.
he fingers a shirt-some bright checked monstrosity-and while he knows he appears calm on the outside bright too bright eyes darting back and forth and his mouth is dry and he licks his lips and glances around again while inside inside he is shaking and quivering and whimpering and he just knows they're all looking at him, staring straight through him. like they know exactly what he is.
he pretends that they're not calling him by her name. pretends they're calling him instead and none of those sibilant syllables that keep coming out.
when he looks in the mirror it's all he can do to not break down at the sight. and he settles for smiles (because sometimes they're better than sobbing) even if they're so wide that his cheeks start to hurt and he knows he looks like an idiot but he's just so happy and it feels so right.
there are days where he wants to call her wants to hear her voice wants to talk to someone who understands when he doesn't feel right when his body feels all wrong when he wishes desperately he was somebody anybody else and he wants to call her and whisper into the phone if they could trade bodies, just for a little bit.
he gets called cute now. and handsome. and charming and all those other positive words that never applied to her. she was never called cute, oh she was whispered about, yes, yes of course but it was never in sickly sweet tones, like you would with the untouchable unobtainable boys in teen magazines.
he gets called cute now. and he loves it.
he fingers a shirt-some bright checked monstrosity-and while he knows he appears calm on the outside bright too bright eyes darting back and forth and his mouth is dry and he licks his lips and glances around again while inside inside he is shaking and quivering and whimpering and he just knows they're all looking at him, staring straight through him. like they know exactly what he is.
he pretends that they're not calling him by her name. pretends they're calling him instead and none of those sibilant syllables that keep coming out.
when he looks in the mirror it's all he can do to not break down at the sight. and he settles for smiles (because sometimes they're better than sobbing) even if they're so wide that his cheeks start to hurt and he knows he looks like an idiot but he's just so happy and it feels so right.
there are days where he wants to call her wants to hear her voice wants to talk to someone who understands when he doesn't feel right when his body feels all wrong when he wishes desperately he was somebody anybody else and he wants to call her and whisper into the phone if they could trade bodies, just for a little bit.
