Bound

Caroline Turco (they/them)

A skirt and blouse seem to hover in the mirror
​The body they rest upon has disappeared, shrunk, shriveled into oblivion
I don’t see myself anywhere
That is not me…at least not today.
I rip the clothes away from my body
I rifle through my drawer
There it is.
I slip it over my head
It embraces me

I am pulled back into a memory of the first time I bound my chest:

I try on his binder
He turns to me
“How do you feel?”
I cannot breathe.
The air in my lungs is gone 
The compression is not the culprit
Instead it’s my fear
It feels too right.

For the longest time I denied who I was, and finally, they found me
They were staring me right in the eye
I could no longer deny
The call of “she…she…she” began to fade

I know who I am… it isn’t her.

I layer a sweater on top 
I turn back to the mirror and there I am
Not shrunken or shriveled, but rooted in my identity
The binary is not my home
I belong to the abyss in between 
Ever shifting, ever-changing, always myself. 

I step out into the piercing fall air
A flood of students accost me
They see me as “her”
My stomach is hollow 
The dysphoric voices clang in my head 
Like cars backfiring
Like crushing metal in a garbage disposal
Like shattering glass
I can’t hear anything else

I try to breathe, yet I am reminded of the mechanism constricting my chest
It comforts yet torments me  
It reminds me of who I am, but also of who I will never be.
My heart whispers, “You are real, you are real.”
The voices of society counter, “You are a fraud.”
I breathe in deeply
My chest presses against the compressing panel
I know who I am. 

This garment, a manifestation of dysphoria, provides me euphoria.
On days when my gender shifts, I invent who I am. 

I run my hands down my chest 
I am flat and I am free.

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