Bound Heart by A. Ligyron

Somedays, I am reminded that I am just a man. No matter what I do, whoever I become, I will always be just a man. And as a man, I have nothing but my heart, I suppose. Nothing but my chopped up hair and bound chest. I am not the most typical of men, I apologize—but this is what it means, to be a man.

It means a bathroom and scissors on the table, it means to be Atlas, the world between my shoulders. A cracked spine, bleeding lips, bleeding heart. This is what it means to be human. The rusty chains of womanhood that bind me, so close to falling apart but not yet there. This is all I will ever be.