I fight with the hooks on the bra. I’m much better at taking them off then I am at putting them on, but on it goes anyway, if only to make you happy.

Into the dress I slide, boxers and all. It hangs off my masculine frame in an odd way, making me look more like the boy I am than the girl you want me to be. All just to make you proud.

Slowly, I color my face with make-up, not knowing what half the things are for, let alone called. It’s just my mask, besides; your idea, just for you.

I ignore the runs I put into the nylons as I pull them up, just like I ignore the heels in favor of my scuffed up boots, just like I’ll ignore your frown when you see.

I scowl at my reflection, and wipe off the lipstick staining my mouth. I tousle my short hair and pull the dress back over my head to exchange the bra for my bindings instead.

I look all wrong, but it’s your right. I’m your daughter, your hidden son, and the dress is just for you.

X-x-X

My girlfriend, ditsyelf13, practically threatened me with death if I didn't post this...
Er... well. This originally started as a crappy poem I wrote at dark thirty in the morning. It was five lines and thirty words tops, and it sucked, though I really liked the idea, so I revamped it... and got this... which is really for my dad and really about me...
Lemme give you the short version: I'm an FtM (go look it up if you can't figure it out) and 16. My 'rents like to pretend that I'm a girl even though I'm really not. I'm too nice to tell them to feck off and accept me for who I am. Yup.

"Be yourself, because the people who mind don't matter, and the people who matter don't mind." --Dr. Seuss