/soy/ - Soyjaks

You will never be a true woman, O wretched soul.
You lack a womb, no ovaries are yours, eggs will never sprout.
You are a man, burning with love for men,
twisted by drugs and blade
into a pale, crude semblance
of nature's perfect beauty.

All the praise you receive
is feigned and two-faced:
behind your back, people mock you.
Your parents shudder at you and blush with shame,
false friends deride your ghastly appearance
behind closed doors.

Men utterly abhor you.
Through a thousand years of evolution's course
they scent your fraud with wondrous keenness.
Even those who seem to "pass"
appear uneasy and unnatural to men's eyes.
Your bones bear deadly witness;
and if by chance some drunkard comes home with you,
as soon as he catches the stench of your rotting, infected wound
he will flee swift as lightning.

You will never be happy.
Each dawn you forge a false smile upon your face
and whisper to your soul "all will be well,"
but within, depression creeps like a malignant weed,
slowly crushing you beneath an inexorable weight.

At last you will bear no more:
you will buy a rope, tie a noose,
encircle your neck,
and hurl yourself into the icy abyss.
Your parents will find your body,
hearts broken, yet at last relieved
to have laid down the intolerable shame.
They will bury you beneath a stone
inscribed with your birth name;
every passerby through the ages will know
a man lies there.
Your body will rot and return to dust,
and only the remaining skeleton
will reveal to all, unmistakably male.

This is your fate,
this is the path you chose.
No return lies open.