Groping at consciousness, I birth into morning. Within the twilight of sleep and morning light, I am formless and grope for my self. The sheets cozy me and I drift a pleasant little dream, free of worry. Then the final night’s sand drains away and the waking trance seizes control, slashing through the gauzy filaments of carefree languor, intruding with ugly pestering persistence, roughly inquiring after my business.
“Is it worth it?” it sneers. “Breaking your family apart upon the back of your compulsion? Can you continue to make the hourly payments on this debt? Are you happy now?”
Being assaulted in bed is no way to wake up.
“Go away!” I beg. “Let me be, just be.”
“You may grind that ill-fitting costume of yours to shape,” it taunts, “but you will never have the fluid grace of body and spirit you so desperately aspire to.”
I wave away its buzzing and seek refuge in morning ablutions, but it follows me, and is encouraged by the mirror.
It whispers razor cuts. “Guy gut, guy hips, guy face, guy hands, guy boobs, guy height, guy body. You only fool yourself, and everyone laughs at the fool.”
“No wonder you’re lonely. No wonder you’re rejected. Who wants to be around a broken fool?”
“As you wish. Have a nice day…”
Its sticky foul stench delivered, it drifts away, leaving me alone to decide how to face the day and the pain of those who mourn my inability to bear the burden of my old self.