Assigned

By Kasey Rodriguez-Vizcarrondo

They call me “she”—

like it’s a compliment.

Like the word doesn’t land

like a blade

between my ribs.

Like it hasn’t been

branded into my bones

with every careless echo.

Like it hasn’t burned itself

into the marrow of me.

They smile when they say it—

as if their soft tone

can soften the damage.

As if a gentler lie

hurts less.

As if a girl’s name

isn’t a noose I’ve learned to tie in silence.

Assigned.

Without asking.

Without pausing.

Without seeing.

One glance—

and the world decided.

I’ve been paying for that glance

ever since.

The mirror tells their story,

not mine.

A curve where I should be flat,

a voice I don’t recognize,

a face I perform

but never belong to.

I shower

with the lights off.

Not for atmosphere—

but because I can’t stand

to look down

at a body

that feels like a crime scene.

I dry off in silence,

without looking up.

as if the quiet might dull the scream

behind my eyes

I walk into the world

in a costume they praise,

while mourning the self

they’ll never see.

They call me “she”,

but they don’t hear the flinch

in my lungs.

Don’t see the panic

behind my stillness.

Every “ma’am”

every “girl,”

every wrong syllable

that feels like being branded

again and again and again.

Two of me.

One they see.

One I fight to keep alive.

Inside—

he breathes.

Steady.

Constant.

Waiting.

Not confusion—

But clarity in a cage.

And some days?

I bleed.

Not to die—

but to feel real.

Pain I can control,

wounds I give myself

when the world refuses to see me.

I carve he

into my thighs,

Into my chest,

Into my arms,

just to see it

written somewhere.

To make it real

because no one else

will write it for me.

I rehearse my name

in notebooks,

in fogged mirrors,

re-lettering my life

as if one day

it might stick.

Might matter.

Might be heard.

They say I’m strong—

but strength shouldn’t feel like this.

Like hiding.

Like whispering your truth

and fearing it might echo

into violence.

They call me “she”—

but they don’t know

how many nights

I’ve cried over photos

of a smiling stranger

who shares my face

but not my name.

The ghost of someone I never was.

A stranger’s body

I’ve had to rent

just to survive.

They don’t know

what it’s like

to feel like a traitor

for not becoming

what your family hoped you’d be.

To carry guilt

for simply…

existing

as you are.

And yet—I’ve learned to smile,

to nod,to perform a girlhood

that never fit,

never felt like home.

They call me “she”— 

but I live in the moments between—

between mirrors,

between pronouns,

between breaths.

They don’t know

how dangerous it feels

just to be seen.

To walk out the doorwearing

truth on your sleeveand risk never coming back.

How I layer hoodies like armor.

How I mouth “I’m fine”

through gritted teeth.

How I fold into myself

every time

someone uses the wrong word

like a weapon.

They don’t know

what it’s like

to mourn a body

you’ve never had.

One that exists

only in dreams—

broader shoulders,

sharper jaw,

a voice that doesn’t betray you.

They call me “she”—

but I carry a name

like a secret.

Like a prayer.

Like a rebellion

pressed beneath my tongue.

Assigned.

like a prison sentence

written in ink

they swore was permanent.

But I am rewriting myself

in blood and fire and truth.

As if that word

can contain

my fire.

As if a doctor’s glance

knows more

than my own heartbeat.

I am not your daughter.

I am not a mistake.

I am not a phase

to be waited out

or shamed into silence.

I am a boy—

in a world that tries to erase him

with every pronoun,

every law,

every bathroom door.

But I breathe.

I speak.

I write my truth

in light,

in shadow,

in scars.

They call me “she.”

But I call me

“he”.

And one day—

one day—

the world will too.

By Kasey Rodriguez-Vizcarrondo