Becoming a man would have had a disastrous impact on me as a human being, considering how much I hated to be a woman.

Since I was a little girl, my greatest dream was to be a boy.

It isn’t usual, but I always knew that I was different in some way. I felt trapped in my female body while my friends at high school enjoyed theirs.

They wanted boobs, hips, and a handsome boyfriend. I wanted muscles, pectorals, and strong legs.

I remember myself going to bed and praying, with all my heart and hope on it:

“Please, please, let me be a boy at least for one day tomorrow”

I was born in Panama, where sex change is still a controversial issue.

By law, you can’t change your gender in your ID at least that you take off your pants to show a doctor that you do have a penis. …

A poem about loving a woman.

A woman making love to a woman
is like swinging on the edge of a wet abyss
where nothing can be held without sliding
and clocks get out of tune.

Time is prolonged as deforming
while they fall into the abyss slowly
without hurting themselves,
without stopping the act of love that is like
fresh water and flowers and honey
flooding the lips.

Nothing can stop two bodies
merging
into one sweet, enraged sound.
In a cry of surrender,
both women can die,
and find endless life at the
same time.

A poem about joining forces to be born again.

I am buried.
The rain bounces off the sky.
It remakes itself as it rises
and falls, while I hide
under the ground
from this hostile realism.

If rain can be reinvented,
so can I.
At any moment, when you least suspect it,
I will get up and bounce through this dark
world.
No one will see me escape,
no one will recognize me
when they meet my eyes again.

I will become a raging hurricane.
I aim to swallow shame like air.
I will be reborn. From overnight.
One of these days.

A poem about broken dreams.

Days go by and life runs over me
as if I had lost a bet that restarts itself
although it seems to be a new game
in fact it is the same
and as everything begins again
I cannot help but think about
everything that I could have done before
and did not do.

Everything that I could have been
and am not.

A poem about seeing the future.

Last night I saw a ghost,
the ghost was me.
She had another body
but pain was the same.
She had another skin
but wearing my scars.
She had other eyes
but they were just as empty.
She had other lips
but trembling as well.
She had another heart
but it was shattered.

Tonight I will see her again,
we will be exactly the same.

A poem about fighting darkness.

Out of the dark night
she emerges,
her mouth remains open
to swallow men.
She has no tongue or teeth, just an endless
abyss
shaped like a circle that I
can’t stop staring
at, because she’s me,
looking at me
whilst I look at myself.

When she is hungry, I squirm
as if I’ve been craving
during days
or years
for something
I could eat
but shouldn’t.

Now she’s here
and a stinging shakes
my whole body
as I try to convince
myself
that it is she,
not me,
but she who swallows men
and crawls back into the darkness.
Without remorse.
Back into my dark soul.

A poem about… well, my true self.

I don’t want to make friends.
Who cares, anyway?
Nobody needs my approval
to live by themselves.

My solitude and I have
unleashed my potential.
Why would I leave my cave if
suffering is not essential?

I tried to by sociable — I swear,
but I’m too existentialist.
I would change the way I am,
but I am my own therapist.

Sometimes, I feel so guilty
that I decide to be approachable…
It doesn’t work very well,
since I don’t care to be sociable.

Am I a bad person?
Should I take some meds?
I’m feeling remorse now,
so I’ll go to bed.

A poem about mourning.

I see demons everywhere
disguised as old lovers.
Do they want to hunt me?

Am I a beast
or a treasure?

They stare at me through the window;
then fade without warning.
Sometimes, I see their shadows
descending with the morning.

Are they demons
or memories?

Deep down, I suspect
there’s nothing, nobody.
Just me and the mourning,
while my soul is burning.