Confessional

On a day to day basis, I pretty much pass. I exist in a spectrum of masculinity, complete with the perfect hair, tie, and button-down shirt. My breasts, when unbound, serve as little more than guidelines for those confused by my androgyny, but they’re small, and as often as not, they go unnoticed in the world of Sir’s and he’s.

But here, in this place, my layers are stripped from me. I sit, naked under a dark pink robe, tied at the front, and wait for my doctor. Here my femininity is laid bare. The posters on the walls, the sterilized equipment lying in a perfect line, ready for use, all of it screams, “WOMAN!” There’s nothing to do but confront my own body. To really think about the physicality at its simplest. So here, in this realm of the most feminine, I sit and wait.

I feel the need to meditate, to pray. Bless me mother, for I have sinned; it has been too long since my last confession.

Have I betrayed my body? Not kept it safe? Despite all that I hope and dream and aspire to achieve, have I put it at risk? I used to be terrified of going to the doctor. Always, I waited to be told I couldn’t have children. For as much as I reject the outward expression of my sex, it is my most prized possession. The ability to create life, to nurture my own, to be mother and father and love another being with all my soul; all this hanging in the balance when I sit in this room.

So of course; why wouldn’t I pray?